Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis
by Rector
Summary: A romance. Christmas, biological warfare, kidnapping, family secrets and a Tango. A Cate and Mycroft story.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements:**

This is a non-profit indulgence based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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**Note:**

This narrative is fourth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the others in their chronological order:

**(i) The Education of Mycroft Holmes **

**(ii) Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree **

**(iii) Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol**

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**Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis**

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**Chapter One**

_Shall They Die? – Ancient Pagan Rituals – A Rhetorical Question – Something Welsh – A Virtuous Woman – The Madding Crowd – Mycroft's Savoir Faire – Here By teatime – Good Old Chloroform._

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It was nearly Christmas. The sky beyond this room was dark and cold. The room itself was chill and unwelcoming. A tall, very well-dressed man dusted off the seat with his handkerchief before risking his exquisite Savile Row tailoring to the vagaries of cheap office furniture. Waiting until he sat, two others, clearly lieutenants, also sat, folding their arms in silence.

Before them on the table, were three, A4-sized black-and-white photographs, all pictures of men, all of whom were currently living in London. The question that was also on the table, asked whether these three men were going to have to die.

It was a serious question. The men in the photos were almost guaranteed to provide the greatest disturbance to the plan. It might be simpler in the long run, if these individuals were to meet with a swift and accidental death somewhere in their daily routine. It would not be impossible for clever minds to manufacture such an opportunity, and the people asking this question were indeed quite clever.

The problem, however, was that each of the three men in the photographs were _special_ in their own particular area, and any inexplicable death, no matter how cogent, no matter how transparently accidental, would be accepted without serious investigation. The men sitting at the table did not welcome the idea of serious investigation. Their entire plan relied upon there being an absence of it, in fact.

Thus the question remained. What to do with these three potential problems? Kill them now and risk massive inquiry? Let them be and risk unacceptable interference?

"Why don't we put them somewhere safe until the job's done," one of the lieutenants asked. "And then decide? We can kill them then, if we want to, or let them go," he added. "It won't make much difference what happens to them once the job's finished."

"But if we take them," the other observed, "we'll have the police and security services and God know who else, chasing around trying to find them."

"Yeah _but_," the first deputy argued. "If we put them somewhere quiet, we can decide what to do when it suits us, rather than having to deal with problems we can't fix if they're dead."

"And what do we do about the police in the interim?" his colleague asked. "You know there'll be security people all over the damn shop the instant one of these three turns up missing."

"Once we have them safely stashed, if the powers-that-be start getting too close, we could always tell the police to back off or we'll top 'em one at a time and dump the bodies somewhere public."

There was a thoughtful pause in the conversation.

Their Principal, who had not yet shared his thoughts, rested a hand on the table, fingertips brushing the edge of the photographs.

"I think," he said, carefully. "That we do not kill them immediately, but that we take them somewhere very quiet where it will be extremely difficult for anyone to find them, and very dangerous for anyone who does."

"And what do we do with the police searches in the meantime?" his assistant queried. "How are we going to be able to follow the plan with half of London breathing down our necks?"

The tall man smiled faintly. "You have heard the expression 'a wild goose-chase'?" he said. Both deputies nodded. "Because that is what we will create to keep the security services and the police occupied." Sitting back in the rough wooden chair, the man in the suit folded his own arms and smiled grimly. "They can chase themselves into an utter fit if that is their choice," he said. "It will make little difference in the end."

"So you want us to take these three but not kill them?"

The Principal thought for a moment before nodding. "Once we have them, we can dispose of them whenever it suits us," he said.

"And where do you propose we keep them hidden that's quiet and hard to find?" the other lieutenant leaned forward on the table. "With the number of people who are going to be tracking them down, wherever we put them will have to be impossible to find by accident."

The tall man smiled yet again. "The River," he said. "We take them to the river."

Comprehension dawning, both the man's seconds nodded understanding. He was right. Nobody would find them there.

"Who do we snatch first?"

Spreading the three images out before him, the man in the immaculate suit inspected each one in turn.

"I have no preference," he said. "I'll leave the strategy to you. As long as the approach is effective and leaves no trail, it doesn't matter which of these becomes our first guest."

The more experienced of the two deputies bit his lip, broodingly. The three men in the photos were each important in their own way, each a specialist.

The first was Collin Hamran, a senior microbiologist from the military science centre at Porton Down, a specialist in both chemical and biological weapons research. Hamran knew too much and could say too much, but he probably wouldn't put up much of a struggle. The second was a well-known landmark in the London Metropolitan Police Force, one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The Inspector knew the city like the back of his hand and had his official fingers in so many little local pies; his presence in the capital was virtually ubiquitous. He would be difficult to target, but vital to stop. He knew too much about one very particular area of London and had to be silenced.

The third was a tall, dark-haired man who, evident by his manner of dress, also favoured the bespoke refinements of Savile Row. A Civil Servant by all accounts, yet he was the most dangerous of the three. Not a specialist in the conventional sense of individual field or discipline; no. His speciality was generalisation of the highest degree, and he knew too much about everything. His name was Mycroft Holmes.

###

It was nearly Christmas. The sky beyond this room was dark and cold, but inside … Cate was still packing things into bags when Mycroft finally arrived home after an exceptionally tedious meeting with the MoD. It had been almost a duplicate the meeting he'd attended at the same time last year, with similar problems and complaints on both sides. He felt mildly frustrated, vaguely weary and hoped that the country, and indeed, the rest of the world, might consider behaving itself for the next couple of weeks so that he could relax a little.

Stepping into the entrance-hall of his home and shrugging out of the heavy winter coat, he caught the fragrance of evergreen and spices and cooking. He smiled, amused. This was his and Cate's first Christmas together, and every day for the last week, he'd arrived home to find yet another part of the house transmogrified into something magical; a place of old-world Christmases that Dickens himself might recognise. Apparently, his wife adored the less-commercial traditions of the season and had spent the last few days literally decking the halls. Looking around tonight, he observed that the balusters and rail of the staircase were now garlanded with perfectly formed swags of aromatic evergreen foliage held back by splendid bows of rich scarlet and gold ribbon, each bow adorned with a gathering of tiny clove-studded orange pomanders and graceful curls of ivy. The entire house was redolent with delicious scents, agreeable colour and a pleasing air of celebration. To his very great surprise, Mycroft found he was rather enjoying it all.

Walking along the hall towards the kitchen, he patted his pocket, remembering the small piece of flora he'd liberated from a public display. Uncertain as to Cate's precise activities, he followed a delectable smell to a rack of newly baked mince tarts, the rich aroma playing havoc with his budding hunger. His stomach grumbled. The sweet-spice fragrance was incredibly enticing. He was only human.

"I've cooked a ham for dinner," Cate's voice had a smile in it. "And if you have two of those, you aren't going to want to eat anything," she laughed as she entered the kitchen. "But one wouldn't hurt."

"_Darling_," he was as happy as he could remember being at this time of year. Turning to look at her properly, he saw Cate was as festive as the season, wrapped in a dark red knitted dress, the high rolled collar standing open and away from the fine skin of her throat, its soft weave gently hugging her curves. She had an open book in her hand, but Mycroft found his thoughts were not immediately concerned with her choice of reading material.

"Listen to this," she smiled walking over to him, laying a gentle palm flat against his chest as she read. "…You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing, is you," she sighed, closing the book. "Isn't that just the most delectable thing?"

"Delectable," he muttered, taking in the shining sweep of her hair and the curve of her mouth, and was momentarily torn between devouring a mince tart or devouring his wife. He felt the twig in his hand and smiled, twirling it between his fingers above Cate's head.

"Mistletoe?" her eyebrows lifted in amusement.

Sliding an arm around her back, Mycroft closed the gap between them. "Victorian Christmas tradition," he murmured. "Ancient pagan ritual," he leaned down to kiss her soundly. In addition to his heart, Cate increasingly occupied his senses, and, encased as she was in his arms, the epicurean bouquet of cinnamon and spice added to her own perfume to send him lightheaded. Sighing, he lingered with her mouth, his desire for food beginning to give way to a hunger for something decidedly less culinary.

Still in his arms, Cate pushed herself away, half-breathless and smiling. "We haven't eaten, I haven't finished packing, and we planned to leave first thing in the morning, remember?"

Nibbling her neck, Mycroft sighed again. It was true. They had decided to spend the Christmas holiday at Deepdene, away from the bright lights and never-ending sound of eight million other people. After an eventful, and, some might say _dramatic_, year, this holiday was to be a few days of peace and quiet: somewhere they could be together in private. The thought of having Cate all to himself in the country evoked a small throb of anticipation.

"Is there much more to pack?"

Shaking her head, Cate slid her arms around his waist. "Not much more," she said. "I should have everything ready fairly quickly after dinner."

"Then I suggest we dine sooner rather than later," he smiled, his arms rested on her shoulders, his fingers in her hair. "There are a number of other pagan rituals you might find of interest."

"You know the Welsh were Pagans and Druids," Cate leaned against his chest, smiling up at him.

"Yes, I did," he managed to sound only mildly superior.

"These interesting rituals of yours?" she lifted a single eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"We invented them."

###

It was nearly Christmas. The sky beyond this room was dark and cold, and inside the flat, it wasn't exactly full of the warmth of human cheer.

"What is this?"

"What is what?" Sherlock turned his head slightly towards the sound of John's voice.

"This stuff," John said, eyeing some flat shards of thin kitchen floor-tile. "Under the fridge."

"Oh _that_," the younger Holmes was dismissive. "I think it's asbestos. Try not to breathe near it."

"_Asbestos_?" John's voice climbed. "What's it doing under our fridge?"

"It wouldn't fit under the sink and it's illegal to put it out in the rubbish."

"You're kidding … right?" Sherlock's flatmate walked into his line of vision. "Tell me you didn't just put a pile of biologically hazardous material right underneath the place we keep our food."

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question?" Sherlock closed his eyes and folded his arms.

"We have asbestos in this flat?"

Opening his eyes in order to roll them, Sherlock sighed. "Yes, John," he humoured his friend. "There is asbestos in this flat."

"Does Mrs Hudson know?"

"Probably," Sherlock closed his eyes again. "She's got it in her flat too. The entire house is riddled with the stuff."

"Then it has to be taken care of," John stamped towards the door. "Before it takes care of us."

###

Ticking off the final point of a list of requests, Nora Compton had been at Deepdene for the last two days, ensuring everything was as Cate had desired. The house had been aired; fires were laid in every fireplace, ready, save for a match; the pantry was stocked with all the food and various other comestibles that Cate could think they might possibly want. A huge load of cut logs had arrived yesterday and been stacked along the external kitchen wall and the wine cellar had been re-stocked with all their current favourites. A great bank of greenery and flowers was being delivered first thing in the morning, together with a ten-foot high specimen of _Abies procera,_ all the way from the foothills of Snowdon – despite the extravagance, Cate had carefully ensured that something Welsh would be involved in her first Christmas at this country house.

Smiling to herself, the Holmes' old nanny made up the four-poster in the master bedroom; many had been the time she'd done this for the Sir Jocelyn and Elinor, and now the house was in the care of their eldest son and Miss Cate. Stretching her back, Nora wondered momentarily if there would be another generation of the family. Mr Mycroft should have children, she thought. Families needed a future as well as a history. She wondered how Cate felt about a family; she was a career woman, a Professor, no less. It would be hard to give all that up. Nora sighed. It had all been so much simpler in her time.

Smoothing down the crisp linen and adding another silk eiderdown for comfort, the older woman smiled again, slipping two dried ears of corn into a deep fold of the bed's overhead canopy. It never hurt to help things along a little.

###

The drive down to the Surrey house was uneventful, although the weather had turned very cold.

"Might we have snow, do you think?" Her fingers curled within Mycroft's on the seat between them, Cate stared out at the bare trees and the rough, ragged hedgerows. There was a curious yellow tint to the light, the kind her grandmother used to call a 'snow sky'. The idea of being at Deepdene with Mycroft over a snowy Christmas made her smile: it would be too romantic for words.

"The forecast was for a dusting above eight-hundred feet," Mycroft searched the heavens. "But nothing this far down."

Discovering she had more faith in her grandmother's weather-eye than that of the Met Office, Cate said nothing. A snowy visitation would be perfect. Surreptitiously, she crossed the fingers of her other hand.

Pulling up in the gravelled forecourt of the Edwardian house, Mycroft urged her swiftly inside while his driver brought their bags. The house was warm and inviting; Mrs Compton had done them proud.

"Come in, my dears," the woman was already there for them, taking their coats and ushering them both into the fire-lit drawing-room. With the pallid light beyond the mullioned windows and the warm red-gold of the log fire inside, the room had an old-world feel to it, as if candles and oil-lamps were more in keeping with the mood than modern electricity. Rather than having the ceiling chandeliers on, Cate opted instead for switching on several occasional lamps, the overlapping pools of yellow radiance adding somehow to the sense of warmth and snugness of the room.

"Everything's been arranged as you asked, Miss Cate," Nora Compton smiled, pleased. The greenery arrived only half-an-hour before you, but the tree's not due until this afternoon."

"Tree?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows, also smiling. "We're having a tree?"

"Wouldn't really be a proper Christmas without one, darling," Cate grinned. "And this one is about perfect." Looking around, she saw exactly the right location for her perfect tree: far enough from the fire to keep it moist and alive, but not so far away as to lose its impact. "Over there," I think," she said, nodding towards a nicely open spot half-way between a large window and a bookcase.

Mycroft and Mrs Compton exchanged glances.

"What?" Cate saw the look. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all, my love," Mycroft walked over and tucked a vagabond lock of hair behind her ear. "That's precisely the place we always used to have the tree." He looked down, happy she was here. Cate's smile seemed to hold his gaze. He felt warm. He was content. Her eyes seemed over-large in the half-dusk of the room, pulling him in closer …

Mrs Compton coughed lightly. "I'll just go and make you a nice pot of tea," she said, bustling off, out of the way.

Laughing quietly, Cate held his fingers against the side of her face. "Did we just embarrass Nora?" she asked, smiling.

Leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her mouth, Mycroft rested his head against hers. "I believe she considers discretion a worthy virtue,' he murmured, the intimacy pleasing him.

With a sound half way between a sigh and a groan, Cate slid her arms inside his jacket and hugged him tight. "I am so very much in love with you," she mumbled into his waistcoat. "I have a feeling Nora is going to have to be incredibly virtuous."

"_Darling_," Mycroft wrapped his long arms around Cate's shoulders, holding her against him. The moment was very peaceful and still, brushed by the softest of emotions.

"Do you think there might still be some tree decorations up in the attic?" Cate wondered aloud. "It would be nice to use ornaments you remember from your childhood."

"Unless they were thrown away," Mycroft spoke above her head, "there should be several large boxes of the things."

"Shall we go and investigate?" she smiled.

Mycroft would have preferred to sit in front of the fire with her in his arms, but there would be time enough for the things he wanted. A brief _recce_ of the attic would take little effort and keep Cate happy.

"Tea first?"

Wondering how on earth they would fit lunch, or anything else, into the day, Cate gazed at the 'pot of tea' Nora left for them on a side-table. Apart from the actual tea things, there was a plate of mince pies, another plate of tiny smoked salmon sandwiches and yet another plate of layered chocolate cake oozing a rum-cream filling and icing. If they ate all of this, they'd be stocked up for the week.

Sitting beside her on a sofa, and helping himself to a sandwich, Mycroft looked happy as she poured the tea.

"I hope you're feeling energetic," Cate raised her eyebrows. "Or your tailor will have to ease your waistbands by the New Year."

Giving his wife a lofty smile. "I feel certain there will be opportunities to burn off an excessive calorific intake," he said, mildly.

"Chopping logs, clearing the drive if it snows, long treks through the fields, those sorts of things?" Cate asked, artlessly.

Taking a bite of mince-pie, Mycroft shook his head. "No," he admitted, still smiling. "None of those commendable activities had even crossed my mind."

"You are wearing a deeply louche expression," Cate sipped her tea. "I suspect your thinking is limited to a fairly specific pursuit."

Finishing the sweet pastry, Mycroft's smile became expressive. "My love," he rested a hand on her fingers.

Observing the faintest residue of sugar on his lower lip, Cate leaned over and delicately sucked it away.

In that moment, between one heartbeat and the next, Mycroft's breathing stopped and his brain ceased to function. His only awareness was of Cate. Instantly, he craved her. On the sofa, on the rug beside the fire, he didn't care. Nor did the knowledge that it was mid-morning, that they were both fully-clothed or that Mrs Compton might walk in at any moment make the slightest difference. Nothing was of consequence save this inexpressible want of her. His chest thudded, his lungs failed and the entire measure of his blood seemed to course directly to his groin.

"What's the matter?" Cate watched her husband pale slightly.

Catching a thread of air, Mycroft struggled for breath. _Sweet Christ_. "You have no idea what you do to me," he managed, his eyes momentarily vague, blinking, as reason returned.

"Try some tea," she suggested, handing him his cup and grinning. "And think higher thoughts."

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft nodded to himself. "Attics," he said.

"Attics?"

"I've just remembered where the cases of decorations should be," he said. "Shall we attempt to unearth them?"

Finishing her tea, Cate stood, turning towards the door as Mycroft's arm snaked around her waist and brought her back to him. He rested his face in the softness of her hair. "_You_," he muttered. "Are my higher thoughts."

"Foolish man," she smiled against his neck.

###

"It's going to take them _how_ long?" Sherlock was incensed. To have the asbestos-laden floor tiles removed from the entire kitchen area required a specialist hazmat contractor, but not only that, the whole property, all four floors and the small attic-space, had to be sealed and inspected to ensure that no other source of the stuff was likely to remain and cause future problems. This was scheduled to take at least three complete days. Additionally, since the Christmas holiday was almost on top on them, only a few of these specialist companies were still open, and every one was operating on a skeleton staff. Sherlock had just been advised that the job might not be finished this side of the twenty-fifth. _So sorry, and all that_, the contractor shrugged.

"Which means we have to put up with a madding crowd of boot-stomping roustabouts echoing through the house for _three days_?" Sherlock was leaning towards a sulk of massive proportions.

"Sorry mate," the contractor shrugged again. "You can't stay here during the inspection. The entire house has to be sealed off and closed until we can give you the all-clear."

"_What_?" Standing to his tallest, Sherlock peered down at the shorter man, almost daring him to say another word.

"Calm down," John handed him a mug of tea. "It's got to be done and that's all there is to it," he said. "Then we can come back and everything will be safe and we won't die of some horrible lung-related disease in twenty years' time."

"We are being evicted from our own home in the coldest part of the year, and all you can say is '_calm down'_?" Throwing himself into his favourite chair, Sherlock ignored the offering of tea and almost pouted. "I'm not going to an hotel," he muttered balefully. "Stayed in one over Christmas once," he said. "Hateful experience."

"Well, we can't go to Harry's," John said. "She's not speaking to me at the moment and besides," he paused. "Her place isn't really big enough."

"What's Mrs Hudson going to do?"

"She's off to stay with her sister in Bournemouth or Eastbourne or somewhere windswept like that," John looked unimpressed.

"There's always Mycroft's," Sherlock peered sideways to gauge John's expression.

"You think we should ask your brother if we can crash at his and Cate's place?" John's eyebrows approached orbital insertion.

"He's got a big enough house," Sherlock pursed his lips. "I doubt Cate would mind. She likes me."

"Yeah, well," John acknowledged, "Cate's alright," he paused. "But staying with Mycroft … at _Christmas_?"

"We can't afford to rent another flat for a week, can we?" the younger Holmes sounded hopeful.

"Not a chance," John shook his head. "Unless you've suddenly inherited a significant amount of liquid cash?"

"Blast." Sherlock folded his knees to his chest and frowned. "Mycroft it is, then." Sighing, he picked up his phone.

###

Mycroft was thankful the attics at Deepdene were relatively clean as he and Cate dug into several tall stacks of cardboard boxes and old tea-chests. His wife took on the attributes of a wolfhound when she was on the trail of something she wanted. Watching her dive so enthusiastically into the endless collected relics of the Family Holmes made him smile and stand well back.

"Were they in boxes or chests?" Cate asked, her eyes scanning for anything marked with words or signs of festive décor.

"Large cardboard boxes, I believe," Mycroft could picture them in his mind's eye. "I think one of them had a logo featuring fruit or some such thing."

"Fruit, as in faded blue bananas?"

"Blue bananas might be exactly right," Mycroft squinted at the spot where Cate was looking.

"Can you come and hold this one up for me so I can get at the banana box, please?"

The cardboard boxes at the top were virtually weightless, filled as they were with hats and other empty boxes. Mycroft leaned his long arms up against them to either side of her head as Cate burrowed underneath, tugging at a box that indeed had a blue banana logo.

"Not so sure this is the best way of getting that particular one out," he murmured, sensing the ones on top begin to move a little too freely.

"Nearly got it," Cate's voice was half-muffled as she finally removed a large box cheerfully inscribed with a hand of pale indigo bananas. As she stood and turned, the boxes all around decided they abhorred a vacuum and collapsed, almost gracefully, around them.

Wrapping his arms around his wife's head and shoulders, Mycroft took the worst of the avalanche on his back, not that there was any real weight involved; just a lot of noisy tumbling cardboard.

When all movement had ceased, they found they were sitting on the floor, leaning against the rear wall surrounded by large brown cubes. There also appeared to have been an explosion of hats. And masses and masses of thick golden tinsel. It was like being in a small cave as chinks of light illuminated lines of dusty air. A cave of hats and gold sparkle.

"Next time," Mycroft announced to nobody in particular. "We shall do it my way."

Combing hair out of her eyes, Cate grinned. "Oh, come _on_," she exclaimed, kneeling. "That was fun." Reaching over, she found an old, red fez. Putting it on her head, she grinned down at him, the faded tassel swung jauntily above her right eye.

"I may wear this the entire time we're here," she smiled, happily.

"Not the entire time, I hope," Mycroft pushed the old hat to one side as he slid his fingers through her hair, kissing her laughing mouth until he felt Cate shiver and begin kissing him back. Her arms slid around his neck as she pressed closer, her soft sigh of pleasure sending his pulse racing through the gears while his fingers sought the hem of her top and the warmth of her body.

Cate's skin was welcoming and incredibly soft, her muscles flickering a response as his fingers travelled lightly over her belly and around her back. Resting fingertips along her spine, he brought her down to him as he relaxed against the wall. The sensation was incredible. The floor was hard and the position was awkward, but the feeling of her so unexpectedly close was exhilarating; the erotic combination of intimacy in a semi-public place and the imperative of physical need had Mycroft in flames.

Unwilling to defer this even for the time it would take to reach their bedroom, he held her tighter and kissed her hard as Cate breathed his name and moulded herself along the length of his body, curving her form to his. For Mycroft to be so heedless of time and place was exciting and she pressed closer in his arms until all she could think of was how much she wanted him, right here and now.

Seeing her so undone by the situation fuelled his own desire until his kisses grew slow and heavy and she was shaking under his every caress, no matter how light or fleeting. He could feel her heartbeat accelerate beneath his fingers …

His Blackberry rang.

They ignored it.

It rang again.

They ignored it again, knowing it would go to voicemail.

It rang one more time, for some reason _not_ going to voicemail.

Cate pulled away in frustration, groaning loudly, then laughed at the fine irony of the situation. Swearing quietly, Mycroft wasn't entirely up to seeing the humour, but summoned enough _savoir faire_ to answer the call in a moderate tone of voice.

"_Yes_, Sherlock," Mycroft laid his head on Cate's shoulder, allowing the tension to ease from his body. "No," he said. "I'm with Cate." There was a pause. "Yes, a little inconvenient," he said, feeling her bite into the tweed of his jacket in order to stay silent. "We're at Deepdene." He listened. He sighed. "Hold on," he said, pressing the phone to his lapel.

"Sherlock and John have to leave Baker Street for several days and they want to know if they might stay at the townhouse," he said. "How do you feel about that?"

"Of course they can stay at the townhouse if they want to and if you're happy with the idea," Cate took a breath and was immediately serious. "But if they have to leave their flat, why don't they come and stay here at Deepdene and have Christmas with us?"

Pushing himself more upright, Mycroft gazed at his wife. "Are you sure?" he asked, slowly. "This _is_ Sherlock we're discussing."

"I like your brother," Cate also sat herself up straighter, combing back her hair and adjusting her clothes. "And I like John," she added. "I think it would be lovely to have them both here if they're willing to come down for a few days."

Relaying the message, Mycroft's free hand stroked the back of Cate's head, appreciating the smooth silk flowing between his fingers as she leaned into him like a cat, enjoying the touch.

"They're arguing now," Mycroft sighed; he knew precisely what was being said. "Sherlock won't want to come down because he'll imagine us asking him to do all sorts of things he won't want to do. John will want to come down because he'll consider it rude to refuse your invitation. Sherlock will then feel awkward because if John accepts and he does not, he'll think we'll despise him, and since, despite anything he might suggest to the contrary, he rather likes you, I can only assume he'll try and avoid that particular fate."

"Oh, good grief," Cate held out her hand. "May I speak to them please?"

Handing his wife the phone, Mycroft waited to see how she'd achieve her goal. He smiled. This might be amusing.

"Hello, John? Can you put this on loudspeaker, please?"

Raising her eyebrows, Cate looked into her husband's steady blue gaze and wondered, in passing, if she could find him a tie of exactly that shade.

"Sherlock," she said. "You don't have to come to Deepdene if the idea makes you feel uncomfortable. I know how frightening the thought of being with other people can be for you. You can stay at the townhouse; the emergency key is clipped inside a small plastic envelope stuck flat against the outer right-hand corner of the large gate leading to the courtyard. Just peel the entire envelope off, I can put it back later. There's plenty of food and drink and all sorts of stuff in the freezer. Please help yourself to absolutely anything you feel like, and don't worry about cleaning up. Two of the guest rooms are already made up, so you and John can take one apiece and relax there as long as you wish."

Cate paused, smiling a little as she stroked Mycroft's eyebrow with a fingertip.

"John, please don't feel you have to come down here and help me with the tree decorations or making log fires or play old board-games, because I know exactly how difficult it is to get a Holmes to do anything that makes them uncomfortable," she paused again. "Please accept our hospitality for as long as it suits you to, and think nothing more of it. 'Bye, Boys."

Ending the call, Cate checked her watch. "Ten pounds on John calling back within five minutes," she grinned, daring Mycroft to disagree.

"This is a previously unseen aspect of your character," Mycroft looked reflective. "That was devious, manipulative and deeply questionable."

"Standard teaching strategy," Cate straightened her husband's tie. "Implicit permission to fail often allows the student to relax and focus more readily on alternatives." She noticed he hadn't taken her wager, though.

"You suggested Sherlock might be frightened of people."

"Not actual _people_, my darling," Cate looked mischievous. "Only the idea of _being_ with them," she lifted her eyebrows. "And, since your brother will almost certainly never admit to an inability of any sort, then his inclination will be to disprove my statement. That thought, combined with my other suggestion that we won't think any less of him if he decides not to come down, should tip the balance just enough so that when John applies a little more pressure, Sherlock will fold like a house of cards."

Mycroft blinked slowly. "The tree-decorating and the log fires and games," he shook his head, smiling. "All things John would probably appreciate."

Eyes wide and artless, Cate was at her most innocent. "_Really_?" she said. "I had no idea."

"And is it difficult to get a Holmes to do anything?" Mycroft's eyes held hers as he trailed a finger across her lips.

"John doesn't have my advantages," holding his hand to her mouth, she kissed each digit, an innocuous expression on her face. "This floor is awfully hard," she murmured, meeting his gaze.

"It is, a little," Mycroft agreed, placidly.

"I'm sure there are more comfortable places to sit and talk," she added.

"In a house of this size, I would anticipate there being many such places," he smiled.

"Shall we go and find one?"

"Somewhere comfortable and quiet?" he asked, one eyebrow lifted.

His Blackberry rang.

Mycroft listened, and then responded briefly, a faint smile crossing his face.

"John?"

"John," he nodded. "They'll be at the station by teatime."

Cate looked thoughtful. "Comfortable, quiet and with _no_ telephones."

Mycroft smiled.

###

Collin Hamran was taking his mother's Pomeranian for its pre-bedtime walk before it became too dark to see, or too cold to be out. Both he and the dog were breathing out huffs of steamy air as they approached the entrance steps to his mother's London terrace. The curtains were well-drawn, but the glow of light from within offered a welcome warmth. He would go in and make them both a rum-toddy before watching some fatuous quiz-show or American sit-com and then having an early night.

Hamran sighed, finally starting to relax after the two-hour drive from the lab to London – not usually a stressful journey, the pre-Christmas exodus was well under way and he disliked dealing with such heavy traffic. He was more comfortable with quiet centrifuges and racks of clinking test-tubes.

In the very act of unlocking the front door to the Fulham house, the scientist sensed, rather than heard that someone was walking up behind him.

Turning to see who it was and find out what they wanted at this time of night, he felt himself thrust hard back against the door as a great wad of cloth was clamped over his face. A sweet, suffocating smell filled his mouth and lungs as he struggled, helplessly held by two, much larger men.

"That's right, me old mucker," he caught the words vaguely. "Nice deep breaths and we'll soon have you away." Collin Hamran heard nothing thereafter and was completely unconscious in less than ten seconds. His attackers smiled: whatever else science had come up with; it took a lot to beat good old chloroform.

Dragging the insentient scientist quietly down the steps to the waiting Bedford, they slid the side-door closed and were about to make off into the chill London night, when they saw the animal.

The old dog sat on the front-door step whimpering and looking pathetic. Unable to let the animal freeze, one went back and banged on the front door, retreating swiftly back to the van. In the rear view mirror, they saw Hamran's old mother look out at their vanishing tail-lights.

Stage One was almost complete. The Microbiologist would cause them no problems now. They would take him to a place most people in London didn't even know existed, and when he was safely tucked away, they'd be coming back for the next name on the list.

_Holmes_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_The Tree – We Are All Druids – Not Here – Two Days Before Christmas – Applied Machiavellian Techniques – Four Unpleasant Facts – The Glass Heart – Too Long in the Job – The Problem of Gifts – Confounding Sherlock – Signs – A Walk in the Dark._

#

#

Lying on their bed, swathed in a silk quilt and feeling unusually languorous, Cate watched her husband dress. He was an elegant dresser, she decided. Everything went on properly the first time and seemed to wrap itself quite naturally around his tall form without fuss or effort. No awkward fumbling for buttons or zips, no sucking-in of stomachs. Mycroft putting his clothes on was rather like watching a reverse-strip. He enticed.

"People would pay to watch you dress, you know," she said.

"I shall bear that in mind should I ever find myself in need of alternative employment," he smiled, twisting cufflinks into place.

"We may have to do this more often so I can ogle you at my leisure," Cate murmured, sliding an arm under her head. "I quite like it." She sighed, settling deeper into the warm softness of the covers and enjoying the pleasantly heavy sensation of her limbs.

Brushing out a wrinkle from his shirt-sleeve, Mycroft walked over to the bed, and, kneeling on the edge, rested his arms either side of her to gaze down into dreamy brown eyes. Lowering his shoulders, he brushed her mouth with the lightest of kisses.

"As my lady commands," he smiled.

The impulse to pull him down into her arms and make him stay sent tingles of anticipation to her toes, but the sound of a heavy vehicle growling through the main gates at the front of the house made the thought vanish.

"The _tree_!" she froze, staring up at Mycroft and remembering. "Nora said it would be here this afternoon. _Bloody hell_."

Wriggling madly out of the suddenly confining throw, Cate launched herself off the bed and into the bathroom where the sound of running water barely muffled a gleeful chorus _O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, thou tree most fair and lovely_ …

Shaking his head, amused, Mycroft swung into a jacket before heading downstairs to see exactly what his wife had chosen to grace their home this festive season.

Mrs Compton was already at the door where two substantial young men stood, one with an electronic delivery pad.

"It's alright, Nora," he said. "I'll deal with it."

"Afternoon, Sir," the one with the pad said. "Delivery of your Noble Fir as scheduled."

"Might I see it before you bring it in?"

"Certainly, Sir," the younger of the two nodded cheerfully. "We always like our customers to 'ave a look before we bring it in, in any case, as it's a bit 'eavy like to keep lumpin' up an' down."

Catching more than a trace of a Welsh accent, Mycroft's lips twitched. Cate's crisp Received pronunciation sometimes held faint echoes of the valleys. Especially if the discussion were heated.

Walking out to the rear of the lorry, it was plain that several deliveries were yet to be made. The back of the vehicle was half-full with meticulously-wrapped trees of varying shapes and sizes, each one held securely in a substantial tub.

"These are live trees?" Mycroft was surprised. He'd expected the usual pre-cut variety.

"Oh, _yes_, Sir," the second of the men nodded confirmation. "We don't like our trees to die before their time," he said. "Life is precious; even trees."

"I think my wife would agree with you," Mycroft nodded. "Which one is ours?"

Jumping up onto the flatbed, the younger Welshman carefully manoeuvred a specific tree into view. It was tall. _Very tall._ Wrapped entirely from trunk to tip in careful hemp sacking. Extracting a wicked-looking penknife from his back pocket, he slit the coarse material from bottom to top.

What sprang into view was the most classic of all Christmas trees.

Dark green, straight, dense, _conifer pyramis_. It was a perfect specimen.

"_Mae hynny'n goeden hardd_," Cate announced from behind him. "I love it."

Turning, Mycroft watched as his wife pulled herself easily up onto the back of the lorry to slide her hands deep into the thick foliage of the tree. The expression on her face was beatific.

"I had no idea you were a Druid," he said, watching her.

"We all are," she said, smiling at the heady scent of the living thing before her. "We just forget sometimes."

"Are you 'appy with the tree, then?" the younger of the two men wanted to be sure.

"Oh, _yes_," Cate smiled. "It's exactly what I wanted, thank you for bringing her to me."

"Shall we get it inside for you?"

Helping Cate jump down from the back of the lorry and standing well clear, Mycroft watched as their tree was oh-so-very-carefully brought to ground-level.

"This way, please," Cate beckoned them into the house.

Waiting until the tree was in its rightful place and the delivery had been signed for and the lorry had gone on its way, Cate stood in front of the beautifully fragrant fir and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

"Flawless," Mycroft's fingers stroked the nape of her neck before leaning her back against him. He wasn't sure if he meant Cate or the tree. Possibly both.

"I love trees," Cate sighed. "After Christmas, I intend to begin planting a new copse of conifers half-way between the house and the far woods," she said. "And this one will be the first," she added, turning in his arms and looking serious. "I'm not sure if you know what this means to me."

"I had no real idea, _no_," he said. "But I'm beginning to see."

"I shall wait until John's here before I start decorating," she said. "If that's alright with you?"

"My love, I shall be happy if you are happy," Mycroft smiled. If Cate wanted John to help her with the tree, that was fine with him. After the … _events_ of the day, all he really wanted to do was settle down with the paper and a glass of good malt. But there was one more task before he could bid farewell to his responsibilities.

"Sherlock and John should be on the four o'clock train," he said. "Since I've advised virtually my entire staff to begin their holiday, I'll take the Bentley and collect them myself. Assuming the train's on time, I'll only be a few minutes."

The Boxhill and Westhumble railway station was about two minutes away by car.

"Nora and I are going to make up the guest rooms," Cate paused, thoughtfully. "Are there any _issues_ Sherlock might have in this house?" she asked, a thinking look on her face. "Despite everything he tells people, Sherlock is not an insensitive person, and I don't want to do anything that might upset him."

Mycroft saw the seriousness of Cate's question. Such empathy with his, often misunderstood, younger brother, made his chest feel tight. He smiled. How had he managed to find a woman like her?

"Sherlock's early years were not unhappy ones," he said, slowly. "It was only when he began to discover the appalling limitations of adulthood that he developed certain … idiosyncrasies."

"Will there be a problem if I don't put him in his old room?" Cate wanted to be absolutely sure.

"Not in the least," Mycroft looked into his wife's eyes and felt, once again, an overwhelming sense of appreciation.

"_Good_," Cate nodded. In that case, I'll put John in the Blue bedroom and Sherlock in the Green one, either side of the second-floor bathroom. Since they share a flat, I doubt they'll mind sharing a bathroom."

"And I'll be off," Mycroft checked his half-Hunter. "Their train'll be in any minute."

"Drinks and canapés when you get back, my love," Cate touched his mouth with her lips. "And then we can all begin to relax."

Realising he was looking forward to not having to do anything, Mycroft found he was whistling _O Christmas Tree_ on the way to the car. He smiled.

###

"What do you mean, '_not here'?_ the more experienced of the two asked. "He lives here, how can he be 'not here'?"

"Looks like he's buggered off for Christmas and is _not here_."

"Any ideas when he's going to be back?"

"We can keep an eye on his house, but apart from _that_ …" the man spread his hands and shrugged.

The older man frowned. "We can't delay the plan just because Holmes is out of town for the holiday," he said. "Is the copper still around?"

"_Lestrade_? Sure," the other nodded. "But we hadn't worked out how and when to lift him, had we?"

"Then we'd better get out thinking caps on," the first commented. "We'll see what we can organise around the Yarder, and then nab Holmes as soon as he's back."

"The boss isn't going to like any delay, if there is one," the younger of the two made a face.

"Then we'd better get the Inspector under wraps sooner rather than later, 'ain't we?"

###

Two days before Christmas, and a report arrives on his desk advising him of the disappearance of a Level One Scientific Personnel (Risk Level One) from Porton Down; missing, possibly kidnapped. There is no indication of how or why the man had disappeared; no wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, to add texture to the picture, nor, apparently, are there enemies or debts. The man's mother stated he had been taken away from home by persons (unknown) in a dark, medium-sized van, probably a Bedford, but not really sure. Although the scientist's mother was an old girl, she wasn't so elderly as to miss the number-plate. LG1 1, was all she managed to get before it pulled away, but it was better than nothing.

But, honestly … _two days before Christmas_? What kind of rat-bastard kidnaps someone at Christmas?

Sat behind his desk, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade rubbed his eyes. A headache resulting from a couple of bevies too many last night at the City of Westminster Chamber of Industry and Commerce Christmas bash, and the certain knowledge he was expected to put in an appearance tonight at the far posher Southbank Community Christmas Celebration, had had Lestrade wondering if he could nip off for a quick kip beforehand. It wouldn't do to have the nearby boroughs feel they weren't properly appreciated, especially as he was, in fact, a local boy.

Born and bred in Lambeth, Lestrade's first view of the world had been through the windows of St Thomas' Hospital, and he'd kind of been hanging around the area ever since. He knew every pub, club, illicit casino, drugs den and knocking-shop within an hour's walk in any direction. He could tell you where he was in the area by the sounds he could hear and the colour of the stone in the buildings. More importantly, everyone in the neighbourhood knew _him_.

Then the disappearing scientist arrived in his in-tray, and the chance to nick off for a spot of shut-eye disappeared too. Ah well.

Porton Down … one of the biggest and most secretive of all the British government research centres. Nothing much biological went on around the world that this place wasn't connected to, these days. Very hush-hush, and with all kinds of nasty undertones about the place … what it did … who it did it for … did it _to_ …

Thus the disappearing biologist … sorry, _micro_biologist, had set off all sorts of alarms, and one of them had landed on his desk.

Rubbing his eyes again, Lestrade shouted for tea and aspirin. Maybe if he could think a little more clearly, he might be able to get out of here before midnight.

###

Cate was assembling the ingredients for a batch of Margaritas when she heard the Bentley pull to a stop by the door. A huge grin spread over her face, she skipped out to the hall, waiting for them to come in.

John walked through first, bag in hand, his expression uncertain as to the likely reception.

"_John_!" Cate squeaked, wrapping her arms around the blonde man's neck and kissing him on both cheeks. "How lovely you could come down at such short notice."

"Yeah, _well_," he smiled. "Thanks for inviting us … we'd be in a bit of a pickle otherwise."

"Anything for my favourite GP," Cate smiled. "Unless you want to go up to your room straight away, drop your bag and come into the drawing room for drinks and nibbles before dinner."

Seeing his shoulders relax, she pointed him towards the right door. "Go in and get warm," she smiled. "Be there in a tick." A cold breath of air at her neck suggested the front door had been closed.

Turning, Cate looked up into the pale, handsome features of her brother-in-law. Wrapped up in long coat and thick scarf, Sherlock looked like something out of _A Christmas Carol_.

"Hello, favourite relative-by-marriage," she smiled. "Be warned that I'm about to kiss you, but it shouldn't hurt much." Standing on tip-toe, Cate rested lightly against his shoulder while she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Come in and get comfortable," she said, watching as he pulled off his leather gloves.

"Drink, John?" Mycroft had disencumbered himself of his heavy cashmere coat and was standing at the sideboard by the drinks. "Scotch or something else?"

"I'm making Margaritas if you'd like a cocktail," Cate dipped a glass into rough salt.

"No, a scotch would be great, thank you," John nodded, still not entirely at ease.

"What brand of tequila are you using?" Sherlock looked faintly interested.

"I like the El Tesoro," Cate scrutinised the bottle. "This is their Don Felip Anejo, which is rather pleasing."

"With Curaçao?"

"I prefer their Triple sec which is a little more orangey than the classic liqueur," she inhaled the aroma, smiling. "Want to try some?"

Walking over, Sherlock picked up a shot glass and poured himself a small measure of the intense orange spirit. Tossing it back, he looked thoughtful.

"It's acceptable," he nodded. "What ratio do you use?"

"One-to-one, and double the lime."

"Too much lime for such refined tequila," he shook his head, picking up the cocktail-shaker and ice tongs. "I'll make them."

Smiling happily, Cate dropped the merest hint of a wink at Mycroft and sauntered over to a chair beside John who was attempting to hide an emergent grin.

"What exactly was your doctorate in?" he muttered, smiling over his scotch. "Applied Machiavellian Techniques?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Doctor Watson," she said, tucking her feet up onto the chair, watching Sherlock give a first-class performance of being a professional barman.

Handing Cate a perfectly-made cocktail, Sherlock waited while she sipped and smiled. "_Impeccable_," she said. "Thank you."

Lifting his eyebrows as if anything else would have been _lèse majestè_, he sank enthusiastically an overstuffed armchair, managing not to spill a drop of his own drink.

"John, Sherlock," Cate smiled. "We'd like you to be as comfortable as possible while you're here, so please do whatever makes you feel at home."

Sherlock met her gaze. "Are you quite sure?"

Something in his voice lifted her eyebrows. Mycroft used that _exact_ same tone whenever she was about to put both feet in her mouth. It was the first time she'd heard Sherlock use it too. Detecting a challenge in his cloudless blue eyes, Cate turned to look at Mycroft who had the slightest of smiles on his face. Ah … _a test_.

"Indeed, dear Brother-in-law," Cate took the dare. "_Whatever_ makes you feel at home."

"So," he smiled. "Naked at breakfast?"

"Sipping her perfect Margarita, Cate was impervious. "John's an army doctor and has seen everything; your brother is unshockable and I've drawn quite a few nudes in my time," she looked at his long frame assessingly. "If you wouldn't mind holding a pose for a few hours, naked at breakfast sounds a brilliant suggestion." She turned to her husband. "Did I bring my paints?" she asked, frowning.

Swirling his scotch, Mycroft was straight-faced. "I believe you did, my love," he lifted his brows and smiled faintly at Sherlock who crossed his legs and saluted them both with his glass.

Looking at Mycroft, Cate toasted him silently with her cocktail. This was going to be an interesting Christmas.

###

Collin Hamran was not having a good time.

He remembered that two men had grabbed him outside his mother's house at night. He remembered the cold and the dark. How long ago that had been, he couldn't say.

And then he came-to here: somewhere _not-outside_, this place had an indoors noise-level, somewhere very quiet, but still very cold, in a chill, damp kind of way. He shivered, glad he was still wearing his thick overcoat.

He had no clue as to how long it had been since he'd been kidnapped, or what might have happened between then and now. Nor did he yet understand why he'd been snatched, although he assumed it was probably something to do with his work. He peered around to see if there were any more clues to his location.

Though the place wasn't in complete darkness, the meagre illumination seemed to come from a single light high up on the wall above the door. There was something odd about both the light and the door, but his brain was still too fuzzy with the drug to pinpoint exactly what was strange.

When he had awoken, Hamran had been half-sitting, half-lying at the junction between wall and floor. Both were icy cold stone: cold and unpleasantly damp. There was a smell about the place of water and decay and … _mud_.

Trying to move, he discovered the unpleasant fact that his left wrist was shackled into a steel cuff, itself connected to a length of lightweight steel chain. Jangling the chain in an experimental fashion, the scientist realised that while it wasn't too heavy, neither was it very long. Just enough to reach a funny-looking table and chairs closer to the middle of the stone chamber.

Pushing hard against the wall behind his back, Hamran managed to stand upright, his fingertips picking out the enormous size of the wall's stone slabs: these were not simple bricks, but massive blocks of finely masoned stone that looked like they had been here for a very long time.

Still dizzy, Hamran suppressed a wave of nausea as he stood away from the wall, trying to gauge the dimensions of his gaol. The dripping moisture on the stones suggested that this place – wherever it was – was either very close to or possibly even below the waterline; the marks on the stones gave evidence of repeated and recent inundation.

It was then Collin Hamran discovered three other unpleasant facts.

The feeble glow of the single light was feeble because the casing of the light was thickened and slightly hazed: it was a _waterproof_ fitting. The door looked weird because it was a sealed, steel, _watertight_ door.

The third nasty observation was a growing awareness of a high-water mark.

The mark was at least six feet above his head.

If this place flooded on a regular, possibly tidal basis, he probably didn't have long to live.

###

"If you fall, don't think for a second that I'm going to catch you," John warned, as Cate leaned perilously away from the top of the old, wooden, A-frame ladder.

"I'm not going to fall," Cate muttered, her attention focused on affixing an antique-gold painted glass star to the very apex of the tree. "And if I did," she smiled, sitting back on the very top step and dusting her hands. "I'd probably fall _on_ you, so any lack of catching on your part would be moot."

"There's a bare patch right here in the middle," he observed, critically. "It's going to look glaringly odd if we leave it like this."

"I've got something special to go in there," Cate nodded to a small red box on the side table by the sofa. "I want Mycroft to put that one up."

"Then is there anything else we've missed?" Walking around the entire tree and squinting for unadorned places, John tried to see where they might imaginably bestrew additional yardage of thick tinsel. It was impossible. The tree was splendidly festooned from every conceivable angle.

"What about the tub?" he asked. "Damn ugly great thing. It would look better covered."

Cate frowned. "I rather like the rustic look," she said tilting her head to scrutinise the chunky wooden container.

"Underneath all that glitz?" John sounded unimpressed. "It looks completely out of place."

"Excuse _me_," Cate disagreed. "Arts major here."

"Well, _Arts_ major," John gave her a mocking bow. "It looks boring and we should cover it."

Looking in through the open doorway, yet well beyond the blast radius of any stray ornamentation, Mycroft and Sherlock wore identical expressions.

"This is why father never allowed us puppies," Mycroft was philosophical.

"He was wiser than I thought," Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, nodding sagely.

"A postprandial, little brother?"

"Why not?" Sherlock shook his head at John and Cate's continued bickering as he followed his brother into the study.

Pouring two balloons of a fine cognac, Mycroft strolled over to the windows where his sibling stood appreciating the sparkling starlit night.

"I smell snow," Sherlock swirled the mellow spirit.

"That'll please Cate," his brother nodded. "She hoped it would."

About to observe that his sister-in-law would inevitably want to make a snowman and he was not about to sacrifice his scarf, the conversation paused as Mycroft's Blackberry rang.

"Excuse me," Mycroft pulled the device from his jacket, answering in a low voice.

About to step away, Sherlock hesitated as his brother's tone sharpened.

"When was this reported?" the older Holmes was abrupt. "And why I am hearing this only now?"

Curious, Sherlock tipped his head. It was unlike Mycroft to become openly annoyed quite so easily.

"Keep me updated, this time," ending the call, Mycroft pursed his lips, clearly irritated. "An RL1 from Porton Down has been mislaid," the elder Holmes sounded impatient. "Comms go completely to hell at Christmas."

"RL1? What area?" Sherlock was rather well-informed about the research centre.

"Biological weapons research," Mycroft made a sour face. "Man's a microbiologist."

"Any clues as to who's responsible?"

"Nothing yet," Mycroft shook his head, biting his lip in thought. "All the usual suspects are being watched."

"A new player, possibly?"

"_Possibly_," Mycroft was already juggling scenarios.

"Should have had them all chipped as I recommended," Sherlock sniffed and looked righteous.

"Sherlock, the British Government has not yet descended to your level of paranoia," Mycroft looked sideways at his brother. "We do not tag our people as if they are Kruft's Best of Breed."

"But you have a tracker in your phone, don't you?"

"As it happens, I'm experimenting with a variety of potentially useful technologies," the elder Holmes smiled fractionally, but would be drawn no further.

Additional conversation was interrupted by Cate who entered the room cautiously.

"Am I stepping into anything momentous?" she asked, only partially in joke, as she scanned their faces.

"Not at all, my love," Mycroft turned to her. "Do you need something?"

"There's a small thing I'd like you to do for me," she said. "It will only take a moment."

"Of course," he smiled. "Lead on."

Slipping her fingers through his, Cate brought him back into the Drawing room where the tree – despite all of John's dire warnings and his loss of the eventual coin-toss – was beautifully complete in its temporary festive finery.

All bar one small place that seemed barren by comparison with the tree as a whole.

Handing him the red box, Cate smiled up into curious blue eyes.

"I shall have one of these made every Christmas, darling," she said quietly.

Opening the container, Mycroft lifted a sheet of heavy tissue-paper to reveal … the most exquisite crimson heart decoration blown in glass and hand-gilded. A fine gold chain was attached to a glass loop at the top. Clearly, it was intended for the tree. It was a stunning example of the glass-blower's art; its dark ruby glow filling his hand.

Turning it over, he observed some small gold lettering in the centre of the back. Looking closer he read the words 'C for M, with love.'

In that moment, he wished they were alone; wished he could respond to his wife's gesture in the way he suddenly desired. Contenting himself with a subtle smile, his fingers stroked Cate's cheek.

"My love," his voice was low.

Seeing the empty space – appropriately – near the heart of the tree, he looped the chain very carefully over a strong stem and watched the glass heart sway momentarily.

"Be careful you don't break it," Cate smiled.

"I shall take every care not to," meeting her eyes, Mycroft was lost for a moment in their private conversation. His own heart beat a quicker tempo.

John's soft cough brought them back to reality.

"As a reward for helping me decorate the tree," Cate turned brightly to her favourite doctor. "You get to choose the first game we play," she said, grinning. "Monopoly, Cluedo, Trivial Pursuit, the London Game, or Risk," she said. "Or if you're feeling especially brave, there are all sorts of card-games we can play, up to and including seven-card stud poker, at which I am a _demon_."

"Cluedo!" Sherlock derided the very word.

"_Not_ _Cluedo_," John sounded fleetingly desperate. "How about Monopoly?"

"_Monopoly_?" Sherlock scorned again. "Where the entire success of each player rests upon the chance of the dice and the turn of a card? Where logic and skill and economic theory are hopelessly perverted by the ludicrous whims and avarice of others and where John, despite _all_ _reason_, usually ends up with hotels on Park Lane?"

Smiling, John looked happy. "Monopoly it is, then."

###

Based on previous years' experience, Lestrade was sufficiently savvy to keep some spare kit at the Yard: you never knew when a blood-drenched, axe-wielding maniac might be having a go all over your best shirt. Opening the tall cupboard at the rear of his office, Greg realised he'd been in this job for too long: there was an entire _wardrobe_ of clothing in there, including several pairs of shoes and even – God help him – a dinner jacket.

Grabbing a dark suit still wrapped in its dry-cleaning plastic, a white shirt still in the packet and a silvery tie, the Inspector also picked up a small toiletry bag before heading downstairs to the Rec area for a fast shower.

If he hurried, he could still make the Southbank do before all the hot food got cold.

###

"_So_ …" Cate was hesitant. "You didn't bring them with you?"

"For what purpose?" Sherlock frowned.

"Well," she shrugged lightly. "It _is_ traditional to have them on the day. Or the previous evening."

"There seemed little reason."

"You have a point, I suppose," she nodded. "Not to worry," Cate looked thoughtful. "I shall improvise."

Watching a small smile appear on her face, Sherlock analysed his Sister-in-law's thoughts. Obviously, Cate had decided that, since neither he nor John had brought their Christmas presents down to Deepdene, she would have to fill such absence with some interim _deux ex machina_. The fact that she had originally prepared their gifts, currently tucked away at Baker Street, made no apparent difference to an irrational desire to watch them being opened. This made absolutely no sense and consequently would be filed under the heading of 'sentimentality'. He wondered briefly how his brother coped.

That _he_ already knew what the gifts were had no bearing on the issue. His was a microscope; by the dimensions and weight of the container, one of the new split-screen comparative ones from Brunel. He had been after one of these at a low level of covet for some while. Given that Cate _should have_, and Mycroft certainly _would have_ surmised his deduction of the contents of the package, it seemed counter-productive then, to drag the thing all the way down on the train, only to drag it all the way back. Sherlock also knew that John's gift contained two bespoke dress-shirts, most likely from Mycroft's tailor, based on measurements supplied by himself to Cate at the beginning of November. Knowing her joy of colour, there would be matching ties in there as well. Possibly cufflinks. He had chosen not to enlighten John on these details based on his flatmate's reaction to a similar, prior instance when he _had_ elected to share such information.

In any case, apart from Cate's advice that neither of them were to consider reciprocation, they had not imagined there would be any occasion to do so and thus hadn't thought about it any further. So far, so obvious. _But_ …

Sherlock realised he and John were in something of a quandary.

"_John_," he said, finding his flatmate in the kitchen with Nora. "We have a problem."

"And what's that, then," John looked away from the kitchen table where Mrs Compton was practically forcing him to eat a slab of fruitcake.

"Cate is going to have gifts for us."

"Oh shit," John's concern was somewhat lessened by a mouthful of fruit and icing. "What do we do? I didn't bring anything," he coughed, inhaling cake. "Did you?"

Sherlock blinked slowly.

"Then what are we going to do? _Mrs Compton_," John put his decision-making voice on. "Are there any shops around here that might sell gifts or stuff?"

Shaking her head, smiling, Nora Compton gave them the bad news. "Only the local grocers," she said. "You could probably get a jar of honey or something like that."

Wincing faintly, John looked thoughtful. "There's got to be something."

Wiping her hands on a tea-towel, the housekeeper suggested they take a look up in the attics. "Who knows what kind of things are up there," she said. "Might be something you can jerry-rig into a present?"

"Brilliant," John grabbed another chunk of cake and turned to his friend.

Sherlock was unclear. "_What_?"

"Attic," John nodded upwards.

Heaving a world-weary sigh, the younger Holmes made for the door.

###

Sliding herself quietly along the sofa to sit beside him, Cate looked at her husband, but said nothing.

"_Yeeees_ ..?" Continuing to read the paper, Mycroft waited to hear what was on her mind. Smiling on the side of his face she couldn't see, he realised she wanted him to do something but was unsure quite how to ask, and therefore wanted him to guess. He preferred to tease.

"I need your help to confound your brother," she said eventually, as if her request was the simplest thing in the world.

Wrinkling his forehead at a concept almost too alien to digest, Mycroft was intrigued despite himself.

"And why would you want to confound Sherlock?" he asked, turning to assess Cate's expression. The light-hearted curve of her lips suggested whatever she was planning was less than blameless, but entirely without malice.

"It's Christmas and we have no gift for either he or John," she said, meeting his gaze. "I think I have something quite perfect for John, but the idea I had for Sherlock's will demand your skills."

"What idea do you have for Sherlock's gift," Mycroft picked up her hand and inspected the diamonds of her wedding ring. "And what specific _skills_ of mine did you have in mind?"

Tipping a handful of shiny, new, one-penny coins into his palm, Cate told him.

Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft looked down at the pennies as his face yielded to an enigmatic smile.

###

"There's nothing here I can do anything with in the time available,' John muttered unhappily as he cast about the trunks and chests of Deepdene's attics. "Unless Cate wants a tennis racquet restrung, or a couple of arrows refletched," he sighed. Mrs Compton's idea had sounded brilliant at the time, but he hadn't yet been able to find _anything_ he could imagine as a gift for Cate.

Rummaging through a massive old steamer-trunk, Sherlock stood upright with a handful of old sheet-music.

"Ahah!" he murmured, a pleased edge to his voice.

"Ahah what?" John peered across at the yellowing sheets. "You can't possibly think of giving Cate those," he muttered. "Not even _you_ could give her those."

Sighing, Sherlock waved the papers in the air. "A sign, John," he said. "A _sign_."

"Well, bloody good for you," the blonde man perched on the edge of an old tea-chest and folded his arms. "Like that helps."

Taking in the seriousness of his friend's expression, Sherlock relented.

"There _is_ something you could give her that she'd both appreciate _and_ be able to use, you know," he said, perceptively.

"Oh _yes_?" John smiled but looked sceptical. "And just what is that, then?"

Sherlock described the article in question.

John had to admit, it was a pretty neat idea.

"That's extraordinarily creative," he said, nodding. "Brilliant, even."

Masking the faint twitch of his lips by diving back into the huge trunk. "Don't mention it," Sherlock said; his reply, though muffled, was clear enough. John even heard the smile in it.

###

Despite all the rain there'd been for the last several weeks, the evening had turned unexpectedly chill and sharp. For once, the night-sky over London was clear and shimmering with cold.

Stepping out of the Southbank reception rooms, Lestrade wrapped his thick coat around him a little more securely. Not that he had a terribly long distance to go – he really only had to nip back over towards the Lambeth bridge and he was nearly home, no more than a swift twenty-minutes or so – but that he felt a brisk walk might clear his head a bit. This was the second night on the trot where he'd been encouraged to imbibe a little too freely, and he really didn't fancy another hangover in the morning.

So: a nice, fresh walk home, a cup of tea, couple of aspirins and a few hours of decent kip. He'd be right as rain come tomorrow.

Stepping out along the deserted pavement, Greg Lestrade wasn't really in any frame of mind to notice the slow-moving Bedford coasting silently down the near-empty road behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_The Night Before Christmas – Not Immediately Dying – Hemispheric Processing – A Fortunate Man – Jack, Prince and Knave – Family and Friends – Three Reasons for Lingerie – The Problem of the Spring Tide._

#

#

Christmas Eve.

Deepdene was a hive of activity, which was somewhat ironic, given the season. Mycroft found it vaguely amusing that, instead of people sitting down in various warm, comfortable places and reading, talking or entertaining themselves in a rational, civilised manner, it seemed everyone, himself included – he sighed – was task-ridden. At least for the moment.

Of course, his work was hardly arduous; more frivol than serious activity, but still. Cate had barricaded herself in the kitchen with Nora, indulging a yen for some full-contact cooking; John and Sherlock had vanished up into the attics yesterday and had barely been heard from since, while he was in his study, making up clues.

He smiled to himself. Cate's idea for Sherlock's replacement gift had really been rather good. He had already supplied her with the basic information she'd needed to construct her part of the plan. She intended to slope off somewhere private after lunch and complete the rest of the details, waiting only on his final contribution to the cause.

Admittedly, his role hadn't been entirely as simple as he'd initially assumed. He kept reminding himself this was for _Sherlock_. Each time he did, he'd reviewed his thinking and added an additional level of complexity: didn't want this to be _too_ pedestrian for his little brother. Mycroft smiled again as he realised he was doing something that might be considered _fun_. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything that fell solely within that particular paradigm. Cate's influence was seriously threatening his gravitas.

The woman of his thoughts came in with tea. A gentle pair of hands slid over the shoulders of his jacket and clasped around his chest. He felt his ear being delicately nibbled and her warmth at his back.

"Haven't you finished _yet_?" Cate teased as she held him close and inhaled the scent of him: cologne, shaving-soap and a pleasing general tweediness.

"Were I not so frequently interrupted by you," he leaned back into his wife's embrace. "I would no doubt have finished long before now."

"This is the first time I've spoken with you since you came in here," she protested, laughing. "Don't blame me for your inability to focus."

Leading her around his chair, Mycroft pulled her into his lap, holding her close to his chest, his lips at the softness of her throat.

"If I think about you," he murmured, enjoying the sensation of her so near. "I find it increasingly difficult to focus on anything else." Smiling, he pressed his face into her hair. "And I keep thinking about you."

"Then don't," Cate closed her eyes and relaxed against him. "Don't think about me being in your arms, or kissing me, and especially don't think about how you make my heart beat faster," she smiled as his fingers tightened around her. "Don't think about me even for a moment."

Mycroft sighed. "I lack your willpower," he whispered, tracing her jaw with a gentle kiss.

Wrapping around him, Cate felt herself grow warm and soft and heavy. _Dear God_. A grown woman behaving like a moonstruck student. Even now, here, in the Study, all Cate could think about was having Mycroft to herself; to have his kisses make her breathless …

Mycroft carefully held her away.

"Either we postpone this conversation until later," he said, gravely. "Or you give Sherlock a pair of my socks."

Sliding out of his arms, Cate grinned. "Such a lightweight," she shook her head, sadly. "No moral fortitude whatsoever." Her quiet laughter followed her out of the room, leaving him in peace.

Smiling privately, Mycroft returned to a more pressing issue: finding yet another way to keep his brother in the dark.

###

It was dark when Greg Lestrade awoke. Cold and damp and dark. The first thing his consciousness acknowledged was that this wasn't his flat.

Where the bloody hell was he? Lost in a strange place, pain all around him, in his head, in his bones, the Londoner ploughed through a fog of physical and mental confusion. Was this a nasty kind of dream?

Opening his eyes, he blinked several times, adjusting to the dimness. The cold he felt came from beneath and behind him: he was sitting in the corner of a massive stone room, not a modern room, but something from a time before electricity, when buildings were statements of power, not fashion.

His head hurt. Lifting his fingers, he fumbled around to the site of the pain. A lump the size of a golf-ball stung madly beneath his fingertips, and his hair was still tacky with what must be blood.

His face also throbbed, and with the fingers of his other hand, Lestrade cautiously explored the contours of his nose, cheekbones and jaw, discovering several unpleasantly tender spots in the process. Nothing seemed to be broken, or at least, nothing was hanging off or making scary bubbling noises, nor did there seem to be blood anywhere else but the back of his head, although his knuckles felt rough and sticky too.

Carefully moving his arms and legs, the policeman certified that everything was at least working, if a bit on the stiff side. But his chest hurt when he leaned to the left and there was a heavy ball of tenderness in his belly.

Right then. Banged up, but not immediately dying. _Good_.

So … his brain lined up the possibilities. A wild night of drunken partying followed by a tumble down a well? Intriguing idea, but he had very little in the way of a hangover, nor did he stink of cigarette smoke, which was kind of usual after a night on the town. And this place was not remotely well-like.

Then maybe he'd been mugged and dumped somewhere? That seemed closer to the mark, but this … _room_, whatever it was, was not some random dumping-ground; no. He'd been deliberately brought here.

Which led him to the logical conclusion that he'd been snatched. Lestrade probed his memory to the last things he clearly recalled. He remembered the Southbank gig, and that he'd done the rounds, pressing the flesh and having a few drinks in the name of community relations. He remembered leaving, getting his coat and stepping out into the chilly night air, and deciding to walk home. He remembered the sound of his footsteps on the stone pavement … and the low rumble of a car-engine behind him.

So he'd been nabbed on the way home: he wondered if anyone had realised it, yet. Pity it had been so cold; any other time and there'd probably have been a score of witnesses.

Based on his injuries, he guessed he must have put up something of a fight – he hadn't been so drunk as to be incapable of that – but he faced the fact that even fighting dock-style clearly hadn't been enough to save him. Still, he'd like to have a look at the other guy.

Next question, how long ago was he taken? Looking a little more carefully around his prison, he searched for windows, a light-source, anything to indicate what time it was now. Given that his injuries were fresh – even the bleeding hadn't quite stopped – then odds were that it was either still the same night or early on Christmas Eve morning.

_Fuck_. Kidnapped on Christmas Eve. What a depressing thought.

The other thing he wanted to know is, _where_ was he? He'd been brought to this place – wherever this place _was_ – for a reason. His kidnappers – there had to have been more than one to do this much damage to him, must have seen this as a secure place to keep him quiet. So where was he?

Continuing to peer around the room, he noticed a dull glow of light from around behind his right shoulder. Slowly, mindful of the pain in his chest and stomach and the stiffness of his legs, Lestrade pushed himself to his feet.

Swaying a little, he caught his breath before pushing away from the niche in the solid granite wall where he'd been lying. In the process, he discovered his left wrist was in a metal cuff of sorts: something dangling beneath it to the ground as he stood: a chain. An icy sense of injury washed through him. Not only kidnapped but _shackled_? Jesus wept. The momentary chill of fear was swiftly replaced by the burn of anger. How dare anyone kidnap him? _He was a D.I. for Christ's sake_, and a Yarder, to boot.

Taking a deeper breath, Lestrade moved away from the wall towards the light, and gasped as the entire dimensions of the room became clear.

He was in an immense stone vault, at least thirty-feet high and at least the same across: window-less, subterranean, judging by the pools of sitting water, and definitely in London. He'd know those blocks of Cornish granite anywhere. This place was somewhere on the Embankment, or, more accurately, somewhere _beneath_ the Embankment. There was also, he realised, the smell of Thames mud. A brackish, salty tang. Unmistakable.

This place was right in the heart of London. Judging by the size of the enormous granite blocks, it was … narrowing his eyes, Lestrade looked closer at the wall, rubbing it lightly with his thumb. Well, _hell_.

Not only was this place a part of the Embankment, but by the shape and colour of the rock, it was pretty damn near Lambeth. He'd been stashed right at his own front-door step and he didn't even know this place existed. Where the hell was he?

Turning to see what else might be construed from the evidence at hand, the Inspector focused on the glow he'd seen. It was coming from a small light-fitting fixed above a narrow grey door set deep into the stone at the end of the chamber. It didn't illuminate much, and made the dark corners even darker by its faint contrast. From the little he could see of the door, it looked like one you'd get on a ship. Or, ominous thought, a _submarine_.

The floor of the room ascended towards the door in heavy steps, each about three feet high: he was on one of the lower steps. There was a line of smaller, human-size steps running down parallel to the wall. A little towards the centre of the enormous space and to his far right, was a heavy-duty table and several chairs. They seemed strangely designed; robust-looking and clumsy. Odd to have a table and chairs down here, he wondered at their purpose. Walking towards them, he took in the reason they looked so odd, so unwieldy. The table was made of steel and bolted to the floor. The chairs too. Unlikely to float away.

Taking care to step only where he could see clear stone, Lestrade moved further away from the wall, from the point where the chain on his wrist was connected to heavy steel bolts driven deep into the stone. He reckoned he had enough movement for maybe fifteen feet, or so, just sufficient to get to the closest chair. After that, he'd be stuck. Looking back over his head, like any Riverman, he checked for tide lines. Not a good idea. The tide-mark in here was way over his head, perhaps even above the freedom provided by his steel tether.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

Turning sharply, the Inspector focused more carefully on a blacker shadow against the dark of the same wall to which he was chained. Closer to the entrance, he could have sworn it moved.

It did, this time with a groan, a very _human_ groan. He wasn't alone.

"_Hey!_" Greg moved closer up the steps to the – man, woman? – as they sat upright. "Hey, are you okay?"

At the sound of Lestrade's voice, the shadow paused, then turned a face towards him. A pale and haggard face.

"I'm okay," the man croaked. "Who are _you_?" Lestrade's unknown companion staggered to his feet and moved more into the light, such as it was. "I saw them dragging you in a couple of hours ago, but you were out cold. I thought you might be dead until I saw them chaining you up," he coughed heavily. "You don't normally chain up a corpse."

"Lestrade. I'm a copper," Greg replied. "I work at the Yard and they, whoever _they_ are, picked me up off the street last night – _tonight_ – you said a couple of hours ago?"

"Yes, as far as I can tell in here, with no watch," the man coughed again as the cold dampness settled deeper in his lungs.

"Who are you, then?" Lestrade knew the guy from somewhere, some faint recognition flared in the back of his mind.

"Colin Hamran," he stepped closer, rubbing his arms vigorously. "I've been here about a day or so, as far as I can work out."

Hearing the name jolted Lestrade's memory. The missing scientist.

"You the biologist from Porton Down?" he asked.

"Yes," Hamran nodded eagerly, glad now to be able to talk to someone. "Have people been looking for me?"

"Since you left your mother's dog on the doorstep," Lestrade moved towards the nearest chair. "I have to sit for a minute," he winced. "Feels like I've been run over by something big and heavy."

"There's two of them that I've seen," Hamran accompanied him towards the table, taking one of the other seats. Cold and damp though they were, at least they were off the ground. "And one of them's pretty big."

Touching a tender spot on his jaw, Lestrade smiled faintly. "Don't suppose either of them were damaged in any way?" he asked hopefully.

"They always wear dark ski-masks," the scientist said. "I've not had an opportunity to see their faces."

_That_ was a piece of good news. As long as they kept their faces hidden, there was still a chance of eventual freedom. It was when they didn't care if you saw their faces or not that you had a reason to get worried.

"So," forever the policeman, Lestrade needed to know. "Any idea why they took you in the first place? It might give me something to work with when they come back."

"I can't be sure, " Hamran said slowly. "But I suspect it's because of my current line of research, _which_ …" he paused and looked apologetic. "I'm afraid is classified."

Lestrade sighed. He was a London copper, not some bleeding foreign power bent on overthrowing the civilised world.

"Look, mate," he said, a little wearily. "I don't care if you're working on the secret of eternal youth, just give me a rough idea of what it is you have that they want."

Hamran frowned. "I can't tell you what I have because it's ongoing research, so I don't actually _have_ anything."

"Then can you tell me what kind of stuff you're studying? Experiments?"

Realising he was going to have to be a little more forthcoming, if only in order to get some peace, the biologist sighed.

"That's just it," he shook his head. "I'm not conducting any practical experiments, I'm simply compiling a list of developed toxins and their antidotes."

_Poisons and antidotes?_

"Is this all new, then?" Lestrade asked. "Top secret? Scary stuff? If it's from Porton Down …" The Inspector paused, having answered his own question. If it was a list of _anything_ originating from the Government research centre, then by definition, it was going to be _ultra_-top-secret and terrifying by default.

"I don't want to know the details," he said, carefully. "But are there any really nasty things on that list?"

Making a face, Hamran nodded. "A couple of them are very … unfriendly," he said, quietly.

Sitting in the cold steel chair, Lestrade held his aching head in his hands and tried to think. Why would anyone want to kidnap a scientist working on a list of poisons and a copper who worked at the yard? There seemed to be no connection.

Resting his head on his arms, he knew his brain was not up to the job of linking things together just yet and he could really have welcomed some help about now. Greg closed his eyes and wondered what Sherlock was doing.

###

Sitting at a small wooden table in one of the lesser attics at Deepdene, Sherlock and John worked silently as they each completed their part of the job at hand. It had taken them a good many hours to get everything into working order, but, finally, Sherlock deemed it done.

Lifting the violin he'd decided couldn't be left at Baker Street at the mercy of simply _anyone_, Sherlock stroked his bow into a delicate ribbon of sound. It was pure and haunting and, for some odd reason, put a lump in John's throat.

"That's amazing," he mumbled. "That note …"

"Tonal function, John," Sherlock kept the violin beneath his chin, sweeping through several minor chords. "Hemispheric processing involving the right-brain auditory cortex creates harmonic relations between sound and experience."

"_So_…" John worked through the statement. "Our brains connect what we hear to what we know and makes us sad?"

"Sometimes," Sherlock blinked, drawing the bow through a different set of chords. "Depends on which cortex makes the association." He replaced the instrument back in its case. "Prefrontal, and it's a happy sound, Cingulate, and you're sad."

"So," John looked pointedly at the other item on the table between them. "Are we finished?"

Nodding slowly, Sherlock seemed pensive. "I think we are."

###

Locked away in the old Butler's Pantry, Cate was grinning to herself as she carefully inked in a few additional elaborations to her original idea. Working on the stretched and artfully stained canvas, her work was almost done, and, though she said so herself, it didn't look half bad. Taking one of her craft-knives, she cut the canvas away from its frame in a somewhat jagged style. Didn't want this to look _too_ sanitised. Measuring a length of thick, scarlet ribbon she hot-glued it to the back of the fabric, near the lower edge. It was almost done, only one more thing was needed.

Picking up one of her fine Rotring pens and carefully rolling the canvas, she returned swiftly to Mycroft's study, on the lookout in case John or Sherlock were around.

"Do you have it?" she felt a little thrill of anticipation. _Such fun_.

Handing her a slip of paper, Cate expected to see two lines of three sets of numbers, but instead was mystified by one of the most complicated mathematical formulas she'd ever seen.

"_What_," she asked, horrified, "is this?"

"Bowring's irrational geodetic-latitude equation," Mycroft looked happy. "Didn't want to make things too simple by using straightforward Cartesian co-ordinates."

"You expect me to copy _this_?" Even the idea of copying such a monster gave her the willies.

"Yes. Can you?"

She nodded slowly. "It's going to take me a while, though." Pulling up one of the chairs in front of Mycroft's desk, Cate sat, smoothing the unrolled canvas flat. Taking a deep breath and with microscopic attention, she faithfully duplicated every aleph number, every set of brackets and each and every inequality symbol she could see.

It was slow work, but Mycroft found himself fascinated by the expression on his wife's face, as well as the manner in which she focused so very intently upon the task. It was almost as if she were recreating the symbols by force of will. That she was so deeply engaged with something he had produced aroused an unexpected inner tingle. He was temporarily transfixed, a delicious rill of pleasure accompanied Cate's painstaking attentiveness.

The pen stopped moving. It was done.

"What do you think?" she asked, handing him the now-complete canvas.

It was amazing. That she had been able to create this entire thing in less than a day made him shake his head.

"It's no good?" Cate's voice rose in dismay.

"It's wonderful," Mycroft looked up and smiled. "Sherlock will adore it."

"I hope so," she rolled her eyes, relieved. "There's no time to do anything else."

"My love, he'll be entranced, I promise." Mycroft returned again to examine some of the details Cate had included: really, it was a joyous thing. He almost envied Sherlock the experience. "And John's gift?"

"Elly emailed me the all-clear," Cate nodded. "So there's no issue from that end," she smiled, remembering the message. "You have some very nice people on your staff."

"I am a fortunate man," he smiled, meeting her eyes. "Very fortunate."

Holding his gaze, Cate thought she better mention dinner while she remembered.

"Nora and I have made quite the Christmas Eve Feast," she said. "I realise Sherlock's not a huge eater, but I think there are a couple of things that might tempt even him."

"Whatever it is will undoubtedly be superb."

"You have great faith in my cooking," Cate smiled, caught in his blue stare.

"I have great faith in you," Her eyes seemed almost golden in the light from his desk. Mycroft felt his heart thud oddly. It kept doing this. Perhaps he should seek a medical opinion. _My heart beats strangely when I look at my wife._ Perhaps not.

"Do you?"

"Yes," he said the word very gently.

"_Darling_."

"Yes."

Cate felt sudden warmth in her face, she blinked rapidly; his eyes were overwhelming. There had been more to the conversation than words and it caught her breath. She sensed, rather than saw him leave his chair.

"My love," Mycroft's voice was tender. "My darling Catie," he caught her hands, lifting her up.

"You make me want to cry," Cate walked into his arms, resting her face against his lapel.

"Cry? _No_," Mycroft held her shoulders away so he could look down into her eyes. "Not that, my sweet," he wrapped his arms tight around her, holding her close. He would have wrapped her up inside him if he could. "Never that."

"This is a little intense," Cate breathed hard against the material of his jacket, glad, as the roughness provided another point of focus.

"A little," Mycroft agreed. "And rather wonderful."

Unable to say anything else, Cate simply held him close.

###

The Principal nodded agreement.

"I know that Holmes and his wife will be attending a Reception at the Portuguese Embassy on the evening of the twenty-seventh," he said, examining his soft leather gloves for signs of wear. "This might be an appropriate moment of interception," he smiled, coldly. "Then we'll have a Jack, a Prince and a Knave, all in one nice, neat hand."

Carefully not asking which of the targets were which, one of the lieutenants was thoughtful.

"Want us to grab the wife as well? Might convince Holmes to co-operate."

Pondering the idea, the Principal mused. "It could be helpful," he said, finally. "Although it may also have the opposite effect on a man like him," he paused. "Hard to say." The Leader pursed his lips. "Play it by ear," he announced finally. "If you can get them both, do so."

Though it was not his place to say, the more experienced of the lieutenants wondered how their boss knew these things. He seemed to know an awful lot about this Holmes bloke who was, apparently, some minor government official. It was really not his place to think these things.

But he did.

###

"Why have I been given chopsticks?" Sherlock seated himself at the dinner table. A swift look confirmed that he was the only one at the meal to have them.

"John told me you exist almost entirely upon Chinese takeaways," Cate grinned, unfolding her linen napkin. "I'm experimenting to see if you've conditioned yourself to eat only when you have them."

"Reasoning that I won't eat with normal cutlery?" With a miniscule twitch of his eyebrows, Sherlock removed the pieces of polished bamboo in favour of a more standard fork.

"I did actually make you something Chinese," Cate smiled, nodding towards a very wide covered dish gracing the table part-way between he and John.

"For me?"

"If you can eat it all," Cate laughed. "Which I doubt. Then you're very welcome to it."

"Um," John leaned forward. "I like Chinese too, you know."

"But I suspect you also like a traditional roast beef with all the trimmings?"

John hesitated. He did. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had an old-fashioned roast with everything.

Expecting some fried rice or noodles and sauce, Sherlock was surprised at what lay beneath the domed silver cover. An entire _nest_ of smaller dishes, each containing something enticing: Ginger beef; Bamboo chicken; Shredded pepper pork; several different types of rice; coconut noodles; black mushrooms; vegetables of different colours; tiny bowls of intriguing sauces. Though eating was never usually high on his list of necessary things to do, basic curiosity was winning. Cate had even organised a pot of Jasmine tea.

Mycroft was carving the beef while Cate removed covers from the other dishes. John was assessing possible combinations of eating and nobody was really looking his way. Retrieving the chopsticks, Sherlock lifted a tiny amount of the pork into a bowl and began to nibble. It really was very good. Despite himself, he was tempted.

Taking exceptional care not to look at her brother-in-law, Cate was relieved; she would have been a little uncomfortable if Sherlock hadn't wanted to eat _anything_.

Handing him a bottle of quite decent claret, Cate made a confession.

"With everything that's been happening, I completely forgot to decant this, could you pour for me please?"

Reaching over to pour glasses of red for Cate, John, himself, and, at a nod from Mycroft, one for his brother, Sherlock naturally helped himself to a sample from another of the dishes. It was very different to the menu from the restaurant around the corner from 221B.

The ice-bucket was closer to John. "There's a bottle of champagne there, John, if you wouldn't mind popping it for me, please?" the blonde man smiled. It had been a long time since he'd been involved in any kind of formal meal and he found he was relishing the experience, even if it _was_ at Mycroft's house.

Cate seemed overly occupied in checking that John's plate was entirely covered in food to think about him, so, under cover of John's fussing with the Krug, Sherlock stuck a fork into the ginger beef and tasted the crispy spiced meat. He couldn't help himself. It was entirely too delicious.

He smiled.

Under cover of filling John's plate, so did Cate.

Mycroft's mouth tilted at one corner.

John was oblivious, having spotted the Yorkshire puddings, an entire food-group in their own right.

Relaxing back into her chair, Cate lifted her flute of champagne. "To family and friends," she suggested. "Merry Christmas."

John smiled happily. He'd just seen the crackers. Picking one up he offered the other end to his flatmate.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

With the chopsticks halfway to his mouth, the younger Holmes hesitated.

"Merry Christmas, Brother-mine." Mycroft lifted his glass to the table in general.

Taking hold of the cracker, Sherlock pulled hard, landing the motto; John won the hat. Just as well, Sherlock never really thought of himself as a hat kind of person.

"Merry Christmas," he lifted his champagne and nodded.

###

It was much later, when she eventually emerged from the bathroom, ready for sleep, that Cate saw the slim grey Wacoal Dia box sitting on the bed. Mycroft, in his robe, was in an old wing-chair by the fire, deep in a newspaper.

Clearly, the box was for her. Smiling, she lifted the lid and carefully drew the fragile tissue aside, her fingertips brushing against the softest, most delicate silk. Hooking her index fingers beneath two incredibly fine straps, she lifted the entire garment from its covers and held it up for a complete look.

Of the sheerest silk, the nightgown was the colour of an oil slick; blacks and greys and purples, blues and greens. No, not oil, a Blackbird's wing; the iridescence of a storm; the dark beauty of black opal. The colour alone was exquisite. The fabric seemed as flimsy as cobweb and clung and shimmered in her fingers. She doubted she had ever held anything quite so fine before.

Dropping her bathrobe heedlessly to the floor, Cate slipped the lingerie over her head, waiting as it settled its way down her skin. It fitted perfectly, of course: Mycroft knew her measurements better than she did.

The silk was so diaphanous that it clung where it touched: each curve and hollow of her body adorned in the subtle glow of nightfall. Cate hardly breathed. It was too perfect a thing to disturb with ordinary breathing.

Walking towards the fire, she stood by Mycroft's chair, her fingers brushing a strand of his hair aside.

"You wanted to speak to me?" she said. "There are less-expensive ways of getting my attention, you know."

Folding the paper in his lap, Mycroft looked up; observing how every tiny flicker of the fire brought different shadows into play on the silk. He had known she would be beautiful in it, but had underestimated his response. His throat dried and his heart began its usual little dance.

"You look incredible," he murmured, taking in every silken contour. His voice went low. "_Incendiary_."

"This is a gorgeous gown," Cate slid her fingers down her sides, over the smooth glide of her hips and thighs. "It feels like mist on my skin. Thank you, darling."

Standing, Mycroft lifted her hand, watching as she pirouetted unhurriedly for his opinion. His expression turned expectant, an errant smile on his lips.

"You look positively wolfish," she laughed. "Is this why men buy lingerie?"

Bringing her fingers to his lips, Mycroft smiled again, a lazy grin.

"Being able to enjoy their lovers dressed in provocative attire is but the second of three reasons why most men buy lingerie for a woman."

"What's the first reason?" Cate breathed, closing her eyes as his palm slid across the flat of her stomach, his fingers spreading to hold her still and and guide her back against his chest.

Wrapping his other arm around her middle, his hand curved around the side of her breast, holding the warm flesh as his mouth nibbled down the nape of her neck. She shivered, allowing herself to rest entirely in his arms.

"The first reason men buy lingerie," he spoke against the softness of her skin. "Is because of the deliciously illicit sensation we have during the selection and purchase of the item, and in the full anticipation of reasons two and three." He held her tighter, stroking her flesh through the silk, enjoying the feel of her, and the feel of her shuddering beneath his touch.

"And what's reason number three?" Cate barely knew she asked. Nor really cared, as Mycroft's caresses sent her senses wild. Moving under his hands, she groaned softly, pressing back against the heat of him, against the solid feel of him.

He laughed quietly. "The third reason a man buys lingerie for a woman, my darling," he murmured, kissing her neck . "Is so he may have the opportunity to take it off her," he said, slipping one of the straps down her shoulder.

Turning her in his arms, his fingers held her close as he claimed her mouth, kissing her slowly, lightly, until she groaned and dug her fingers into his back.

"Don't tease," she whispered.

"This is what lightweights do, I believe," Mycroft resumed his measured kisses. "And those of low moral fortitude."

"_Utter bastard_," Cate breathed, bringing herself closer, on tip-toe to link her wrists around his neck.

"No," his voice grew rough. "Utter bastards do it this way," he muttered, holding the back of her head and kissing her suddenly harder, deeper, his mouth unforgiving in his desire and passion. Cate felt her knees buckle as a wave of white heat dissolved her brain, held upright only by the strength of his arms, his kisses dragging her into a carnal mist of desire.

Lifting his head to see her closed eyes and moist, parted lips, Mycroft's expression was uninhibited; the red light of the fire lending a darkness to his features that bypassed coherent communication in favour of a more physical response.

Fortunately, Cate spoke that language quite well.

###

They had arrived with food at some point. As neither he nor the scientist had retained their watches, Lestrade could only guess how long they'd been in the stone room. Two men in dark coats and jeans and black knitted masks. The policeman noted, with some small satisfaction, that both men limped. The hand of one of them was thickly bandaged.

"Better eat it while it's still hot," the taller of the two men dropped a plastic bag onto the table in front of them. By the sounds of his voice, a local.

"I have no idea why you've brought me here," Greg stood as best he could, despite the pain in his ribs and the stiffness in his bones. "But you know us Coppers will always track down any fool who messes with one of our own."

Both men laughed.

"Good luck with that," the other said. "Not even you knew about this place."

It was true, but the time in the dark had given Lestrade space to think. He already had a rough idea of where this place had to be, he only needed a landmark or two and it'd be like a GPS signal. He had listened for any sound that might enter the room with the far door opened, any clue that might indicate a more precise location.

"How long do you plan to keep us here?" he asked, quietly.

There was another laugh.

"Everything will be over by the New Year," the first offered, grinning at his own words.

Lestrade felt sick. There had been a very specific quality in that statement.

These men expected both he and Hamran to be dead within a week. The Inspector wondered if the scientist had realised it too.

"But don't worry," the second added. "We don't want you two to get lonely, so we'll be bringing you another friend to play with very soon."

Another friend? They were going to kidnap someone else?

"In the meantime," the second man continued. "I'd try and stay dry if I were you; it gets pretty damp down here."

If it were possible, Lestrade felt even worse. They were talking about the high tide. At any other time of the lunar cycle, the Thames usually rose by around ten feet or so. But they were nearly at full moon; a Spring tide was coming. The river was going to rise by more than twenty-feet. Neither he nor Hamran had that much chain.

Yeah. It'd all be over by the New Year.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_The Killing Pool – Meteorologist and Sorcerer – A Declaration of War – The Ability to Breathe – Appropriate Gifts – Small, Desperate Gasps._

#

#

Lestrade realised he must have fallen asleep because the shock of icy water in his shoes woke him in the most unpleasant of ways. Jerking his legs up, he clambered as far along the slope towards the door as he possibly could, the jolt of awakening still pounding in his chest. His feet and ankles were uncomfortably wet, but the rest of him was relatively dry. For the moment.

Without a watch, there was no way to be sure, but the Inspector reckoned this had to be the twenty-fifth, and therefore the highest-tide was due over the evenings of the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth, and thus was beginning to peak. It would not begin to drop until the thirtieth or thirty-first. He would have to gauge this first surge very carefully to see just how fast and how far the water level rose, and what options, if any, there were for survival. Inside the stone chamber, the rising water was black and silent, an icy killing pool.

He saw that Hamran was still curled asleep, higher up the slope; evidently, not even the sound of Lestrade's waking in fear of his life was sufficient to break through the man's exhaustion. The policeman decided against waking him just yet. Time enough for the both of them to face the horrors of the rising tide as it filled the room.

Leaning back against the wall, Greg forced himself to breath more calmly. Panicking would achieve nothing.

As his mind cleared, a prickle of dark humour hit when the date actually sank in.

_Merry Christmas, Greg_.

###

Turning over in their bed, Mycroft reached out for Cate, only to find an empty space where he expected a warm wife. Blinking a little more awake, he looked around the bedroom to see where she was. The flames of the newly-fed fire leaped and flickered, outlining Cate's eiderdown-wrapped form by one of the tall windows, looking down into the Italian garden.

"Is anything the matter?" she turned at Mycroft's quiet voice as he slid his arms around her shoulders.

"Look," she nodded outside, smiling.

In the light of the almost-full moon, great soft flakes of white were falling from the bright-lit sky. The snow had come. The gardens outside were beginning to lose their contours as everything took on a thick, homogenising coat. It was already impossible to distinguish flower-beds from lawn.

"My first Christmas at Deepdene and it snows for me," Cate pulled Mycroft's arms tighter around her, resting her face against his forearm.

"I arranged it just for you, my love," his voice was smiling as he dropped a light kiss on her neck.

"You know," Cate turned in his embrace. "I almost think you could."

"For you, if I could."

"Mycroft Holmes, meteorologist and sorcerer."

"For _you_," Mycroft smiled, stroking the hair from her face. "Anything."

"Truly?" Cate pressed her lips to his chest. "Or are you saying that because it's Christmas and snowing and everything is too romantic for words?"

"Try me," Mycroft held her tight, smiling down into her eyes.

"Anything?"

"Really. Anything."

Cate stood, staring up into her husband's dark gaze. She believed him; Mycroft was not the sort of person who made empty gestures, but in reality, she wanted nothing.

Almost nothing. She sighed.

"Then love me again," she smiled happily, pressing closer in his arms and letting the quilt fall to the floor.

Briefly closing his eyes, Mycroft knew he couldn't be so fortunate without paying some toll somewhere. The Gods would not lightly permit such a passion as this. And when it came, the price would be high.

Until then, however …

Sliding his fingers up through her hair, he held his woman close and did as she bade him. He could deny her nothing.

###

John was first downstairs on Christmas morning. The light through the mullioned Dining room windows was unusual, as if it were too bright for mere sunlight. Peering through the thick antique panes, he smiled. Everything beyond them was white. _Snow_. He itched to go outside. It was childish, he knew, but the impulse to be the first to leave footprints in the pristine blanket was too ingrained to ignore easily. Pulling on his heavy jacket and borrowing an unclaimed scarf from the back of the kitchen door, he slipped out, his boots crunching softly into the dense carpet of white.

Fresh from the shower, Cate hurled herself down the stairs and into the kitchen where Nora had just come in to get the coffee going and was arranging the components of a serious-looking breakfast. Hugging the older woman, Cate planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Nanny Nora!" she beamed. "Mycroft made it snow for me!"

"And well he should," the Housekeeper laughed. "I'll be starting with breakfast now, so go on away and enjoy your snow."

"I'll be back to give you a hand," Cate grinned. "But I just have to run around outside first."

Waving her off, Nora shook her head, smiling

"Take your time," she said. "This won't take me but a little while. Go on and enjoy yourself."

Throwing on a thick, quilted parker and stepping into a pair of old gardening-boots, Cate opened the door only to see someone had beaten her to it. It couldn't be Mycroft as he was still getting dressed, so … Sherlock or John? Smiling, she followed literally in the footsteps, as stealthily as she could, eventually spotting John, hands-in-pockets, staring around in the early sunlight, a content smile on his face. Grinning, she ducked around behind a young evergreen tree.

Mycroft appeared, his breath steaming as he slid his hands into a pair of fur-lined gloves. He realised immediately that Cate and John were out here too, but he could see only Sherlock's flatmate. Cate's footprints detoured off to the left somewhere.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Beautiful morning, John," he said, walking to the Doctor's side and sharing the view.

"It's magnificent," the blonde man assessed the clear sky and the glowing white horizon. "So quiet and peaceful, it's a massive difference from what I expected this Christmas to be," he paused. "Thanks for inviting us here; it really was a life-saver."

Staring out over the gardens, past the bare apple orchard and down along to the stream, almost a river due to the recent rain, Mycroft was at his most pacific. He liked this place but was rarely in a position to appreciate its beauty and calm. Life was good.

"Cate and I are delighted to have the both of you down with us," he smiled lightly. "Although I'm uncertain how long it will be until Sherlock begins to suffer from cabin-fever."

"It's only for a few days," John shrugged. "He can put up with it for that long."

Turning to meet the younger man's eyes, Mycroft looked sceptical. "This _is_ Sherlock we're discussing."

About to respond that Sherlock could bloody well suck it up for once, John was interrupted by the arrival of a fairly well aimed snowball thudding into the back of his left arm.

"… _What?_" he half-turned, then looked back at Mycroft. A different remark forming on his lips, he was interrupted again as a second missile took Mycroft on the shoulder, a fine spray of snow flicking up into his hair.

There was a distinct and absolute silence.

"Get many bandits in these parts, do you?" John was nonchalant as he continued to look out across the serene landscape.

"No more than the usual number for Surrey," Mycroft's expression was mild.

Another snowball hit John squarely in the middle of his back. A small grin lifted the corners of his mouth. This was fighting talk in any language.

About to make the observation that the clear air would facilitate a view over three counties, Mycroft felt the soft thud of the snowball as it landed on the back of his collar, turning immediately into chilly drips of water down his neck. Lifting a gloved hand, he brushed the remnants away.

A muffled giggle was abruptly silenced.

"Your seven o'clock, John," he murmured. "By the small fir."

"Permission to return enemy fire?"

Mycroft nodded. "Please do," he smiled affably. "Fire at will."

Ducking down, compacting two handfuls of snow and heaving them off in rapid succession, John stared at the assumed target position.

The silence continued.

"You're a rubbish shot, John Watson," Cate's quiet voice came from behind the tree. A small white ball came hurling out from behind the dark green foliage and skimmed his right shoulder.

John's grin turned feral. This was war.

Scooping up two much larger handfuls, he took his time rounding them into solid weapons, taking no heed of the intermittent barrage that continued to pepper him as he focused upon his task.

Satisfied his ammunition was up for the job, he strode over to the tree, almost wading as the ground dipped sharply beneath its covering of sparkling snow. He endured several more, rapid-fire strikes as he finally made it to the conifer.

A shriek of female laughter echoed out as he vanished behind the low boughs.

Smiling, Mycroft resumed his scan of the distant fields and low Surrey hills. Another, louder, scream of laughter pealed out as a stray missile scudded into the ground nearby. Though the battle was unseen, the commentary was sufficient to depict the onslaught.

"Eat snow, you fiend!" Cate's voice was barely audible over her giggling.

John's shout of laughter was smothered as he took a direct hit.

"Surrender while you have the chance, rebel scum," he ordered, choking as another snowball caught him point-blank .

"Not while I still breathe!" Cate yelled, her bravado turning into another scream of laughter as John clearly got in an effective strike.

"Ah, _no_," she shrieked. "_It's cold!"_

Mycroft's lips twitched. A handful of snow down the back of the neck tended to be chilly.

"_Surrender_!" John demanded again, laughing. The branches of the fir rustled as another round missed its target.

Growing breathless, the noise quieted.

There was a momentary lull, then another gust of Cate's laughter as she launched a sneaky attack on her opponent.

"The children are playing, I hear," Sherlock appeared silently at his brother's shoulder.

"It keeps them occupied and out of trouble," Mycroft looked resigned. Then his eyes narrowed. It had gone rather too quiet.

"Although, I have a _feeling_ …" he was interrupted by a flurry of snowballs erupting out from behind the fir. Clearly, the erstwhile enemies had truced, formed at least a temporary alliance and now sought fresh prey.

As the new recipient of a direct hit, Mycroft was pondering the wisdom of making a strategic withdrawal and enduring Cate's, and probably now, John's, _inevitable_ teasing, or to remain silent, stoic and damp.

"Avast, ye scurvy dogs," Cate could barely speak for laughing. "Prepare to be boarded!" John's laughter had turned to helpless giggles.

Several more snowballs flew out from behind the tree, although their aim was increasingly woeful, likely due to excessive laughing on the part of the aggressors.

Shaking at least two handfuls of snow from his dark hair, Sherlock drew a deep breath. "This will not do," he muttered under his breath.

Its depth scarcely an impediment to his long legs, Sherlock strode across the snow to the far side of the tree beneath which the new alliance were hiding. Stretching up a long arm, he caught the main bole of the young fir and drew it swiftly towards him. With a smile on his lips, he cocked an eyebrow at Mycroft before releasing his grip.

Rebounding elastically, the tree did what any self-respecting sapling would do and rocketed in the opposite direction, casting off its thick burden of snow in the process.

There was a quiet _whumph_, as almost the entire payload of white toppled on the heads of the two rebels sheltering beside its dark protection.

There was smothered burst of laughter as the nascent insurgency was effectively crushed.

Smiling, Sherlock dusted off his hands, returning to his brother's side.

"A lovely morning," he mused. "So peaceful. I can almost hear myself think."

The brothers shared a moment of tranquil meditation and accord.

The lower branches of the tree rustled and twitched as the renegades emerged, both heavily coated in fluffy snow which stuck to their hair and jackets.

"That was ungentlemanly of you," Cate complained, an emergent desire for revenge in her heart.

"Not a gentleman," Sherlock flicked white fluff from the top of her head. "According to John, I'm your favourite brother-in-law."

Looking up, Cate remembered his present and grinned. Revenge would come soon enough.

"You are," she tucked a hand into the crook of his arm and heaved herself out of the snow. "Although the two states should not necessarily be considered mutually exclusive."

John took her other hand to help her through the deeper drifts as she was the shortest of them all. Walking back towards the kitchen, they saw Mycroft waiting just outside the door.

It was a dastardly ambush.

Before any of them had time to react, three perfectly formed, crystalline snowballs whipped through the air to score direct hits as he slipped inside the house and beyond the realm of retaliation.

"Never trust a Holmes," John muttered, brushing snow from his chest before laughing hopelessly at the looks of horribly injured innocence from both Sherlock and Cate.

"I'm _starving_," Cate kicked her boots into the corner of the tiled porch as she moved into the warmth of the kitchen. A smile settled on her face as she took in the spread laid out along the big old kitchen table. Mrs Compton had pulled out all the stops.

Mycroft had a plate in his hands and was already sampling some tiny little quiches hot from the oven.

"Merry Christmas, everyone," he smiled agreeably.

###

The water was above his knees now. It was inky-black and gut-crampingly frigid. His feet had stopped hurting quite a while ago. Greg was as high up the slope and as close to the door as the slack in his steel tether permitted.

Hamran was also awake as the first dainty laps of water nibbled at his toes.

There was nothing to stand on, nothing to climb up. All they could do was keep breathing as the freezing water crept inexorably higher.

It took every scrap of body-heat, every ability to move; even the ability to think.

Lestrade closed his eyes and hoped it would leave them the ability to breathe.

###

They were all in the Drawing room after a leisurely breakfast and endless cups of tea. Even Nora had finally consented to join them, something she'd firmly declined to do thus far. Mycroft was sitting in his favourite chair by the fire, Sherlock was lounging relaxed on a sofa, and Cate and John were sat on the floor. The old nanny perched on the edge of her seat.

"Nora," Cate chided. "It's not _Upstairs Downstairs_, any more."

"I realise that, Miss Cate," the woman agreed. "But I enjoy my own kitchen, and I have my laptop and I can Skype all my relatives while I'm having a nice sherry."

Cate smiled. She'd been dreadfully worried Nora would feel excluded. The idea that the older woman might actually prefer to be on her own was unexpected.

"Well come in for the presents and then do whatever feels most comfortable, alright?"

"I'll be getting on with lunch then," Nora smiled. "Makes me feel right proper cooking Christmas lunch for a family again."

_Ah well_. To each their own.

"For you, Nanny Nora," Mycroft smiled, handing her two carefully-wrapped gifts and bringing out a much larger one from behind the tree.

Sherlock was starting to look bored. This was when he was at his most unpredictable.

Turning to his flatmate, John smiled. "I know you already know everything about everything in this room," he whispered. "But if you so much as breathe a hint, I will duct-tape you to within an inch of your life."

Shaking his head, "I'm not a _complete_ moron," Sherlock hissed.

The largest of Nora's gifts was a substantial-looking weekend case, heavy-duty and sumptuous.

"Because we drag you down here all the time, we wanted you to have enough room to bring everything you needed." Cate smiled. "We thought it might come in handy."

"And it's as lovely as it could be," Nora looked satisfied. "And here's me thinking of seeing my brother at Easter," she nodded. "This will do just nicely, thank you."

The second of the packages revealed itself to be a heavy quilted dressing-gown in a dark-green tartan. Sliding her arm down one of the sleeves and wiggling her fingers out the end, Nora nodded, happy.

"Matches my new slippers," she smiled, pleased.

The final package was the smallest of all, a square, flat container about the size of a box of chocolates.

Opening the lid, Nora held her breath and was silent. Inside was a beautiful pearl necklace and earrings.

"Oh my," she whispered. "I shall feel like the Queen with these lovely things." Lifting the heavy strand of pearls up to the light, she sighed. "I'm putting them on right now."

Cate helped her with the fastening.

"They look beautiful, Nora," Mycroft smiled gently at his Housekeeper's delight.

"Right then," the Holmes' ex-nanny stood. "You're all getting my presents at lunchtime, so I'd best be off and making them."

Letting her go without protest still felt somehow wrong to Cate, but Nora made it clear it was what she preferred.

"Here's my first gift for you, darling," Cate handed Mycroft a small package. Opening it, he found it to be a matching, but understated tie-pin and cufflinks in a dull red-gold-grey, metal.

There had to be more to this than was immediately visible and he examined each item closely.

"This is …old _bronze_," he murmured.

"Quite old bronze," Cate grinned. "Very special. Victorian."

Catching her gaze, Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "_No_," he said.

"Yes," she nodded, thrilled he realised what it was.

"_Sevastopol_?"

"Indeed."

"What's Sevastopol got to do with cufflinks?" John was curious.

"The Crimean War, John," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "The salvaged Russian cannons were of Chinese bronze."

"_Oh,_" the penny dropped. "_That_ bronze?"

"But how?" Mycroft was more than intrigued. "This material is as rare as proverbial hen's teeth."

"The father of one of my friends is involved in the smelting process of the bronze, and these," she said, touching the fragments of metal, "came from a Cross that was miscast. They couldn't afford to waste the material but there was a small broken piece and I traded him for it." Cate looked happy. "I thought you might appreciate its historical significance."

"These were destined to be part of a Victoria Cross?" Mycroft smiled strangely.

"I felt it was apt," Cate laid her fingers gently on the back of his hand. "You are a valourous man."

"What did you trade?"

"I made an ink sketch of the workshop as a retirement gift for one of his colleagues," she smiled. "It really wasn't a big thing and I still think I got the better part of the bargain."

"It's inspiring," Mycroft covered her fingers with his other hand. "I'm still not sure what to think about it."

"That's pretty amazing," John nodded. "I didn't think there was any of the original stuff left."

"They say only about enough for another eighty or so medals," Cate was pleased. "You can imagine how thrilled I was when he agreed."

"I can't match that," John smiled, reaching into a pocket of his jeans. "But perhaps this is something you might want to keep."

In his hand was a tiny roll of paper tied up with a scrap of legal tape.

"_John_," Cate smiled. "There was no need; you came here as our guest."

"Regardless," he insisted.

Glancing into John's smiling eyes, Cate undid the pink cord and flattened the roll. There were a few, very specific words. Only a few.

_A Favour_, it read. _Whenever, Wherever, Whatever you need_. _John Watson_.

John had given her an unqualified claim on him. It was a beautiful and thoughtful and reckless thing to do, and Cate loved it. He must have quite some trust in her to risk such an unspecified promise.

"John, it's far too generous a gift," she smiled stretching an arm around his neck and kissing his cheek. "But I'm going to accept it anyway and keep it somewhere very safe. Thank you."

Lifting the curled paper from his wife's fingers, Mycroft nodded slowly.

"A noble gesture, Doctor Watson," he murmured. "Dangerous, but brave."

"And this is for you from the both of us," Cate reached into her own pocket and brought out a small black box, placing it in John's palm. Glancing up at Mycroft, she smiled.

"We thought you might find it useful."

Lifting the lid, inside John saw a tiny USB. Rocking it between his forefinger and thumb, he looked up them in mystification.

"Remember Elly Ibarra?" Cate asked in explanation. "She wrote me a password encryption program for my new laptop in case I ever left it anywhere unsafe. _Frankly_," she added, "I have no idea what it does or how it does it, but she kept muttering things about Base 64 encoding and digests of ASCII strings."

Cate touched a finger to the USB.

"She agreed that Mycroft and I could give you a copy for your own laptop," Cate grinned, glancing casually across at Sherlock. "It's a one-word key and Elly claims it's unbreakable."

Leaning back, John wiggled the tiny piece of tech in his fingers, a smile growing on his face. "What's the key?" he asked, turning to grin at his flatmate.

Leaning over, Cate whispered a single word in John's ear.

"Is that it?" he asked, surprised.

"Upload this program onto your laptop and remember that one word and you'll never have to be concerned about, ah … _accidental_ logons, again."

Looking at Sherlock more directly this time, John chuckled. "That's brilliant."

A faint air of scepticism about him, Sherlock smiled. He smelled a challenge. All he needed to do was separate John from his laptop for a little while … and then they'd see what was _unbreakable_ or not.

"And this is for you, my darling," Mycroft passed her a flat box wrapped most carefully in black velvet and tied with green silk.

It was clearly a jewellers' box.

Cate hesitated. Mycroft had given her his mother's entire collection, but this one had to be new, contemporary. She felt her heart jump a little. Though she had no need of any more jewels, it was exciting. Her eyes met his. He was pleased too, she recognised the tells.

Gently pulling the bow of the silk until it unraveled, Cate slid the fine fabric away from the box within. A flat black container bearing the inscription _Durrants of London_, she held her breath as she lifted the hinged lid.

Inside was a mystery.

Cate loved platinum and she appreciated diamonds, and the piece of jewellery within the box was made of both these things, but it was an unusual composition.

Shaped like a narrow, elongated V, lying on its side, the point to the right as she looked at it, there were four medium-sized white diamonds and one somewhat larger, set in an uneven pattern along the metal shape. A small diamond hanging below the apex of the V where the largest gem was set, with the remaining three stones glinting at the far ends of the fine bars of metal; two on the lower side, and one on the higher. The whole thing was suspended with the V lying almost horizontally, on a fine platinum chain. There were two diamonds on small bars of the same metal, as earrings.

It was fabulous, but Cate wasn't sure what it was … _and_ _yet_ ... there was a familiarity about the design, as if she'd seen it before, but couldn't remember where.

"It's _wonderful_, Mycroft," she whispered. "Why does this design seem familiar to me?"

"May I?" Sherlock was curious too. As Cate handed him the box, he looked thoughtful for a moment, tilting the box at different angles, before smiling and giving a brief nod.

"Appropriate," he said, handing it back.

"_Appropriate_?" Cate looked back at her husband. "Why so?"

Smiling down at her sitting on the floor by his chair, Mycroft debated whether to tell her, or allow her to discover it for herself.

"Your birthday is in March," he said, finally, sitting back with an amused expression on his face.

Cate thought. Her birthday was indeed in March, the thirtieth of the month to be precise. But what did that have to do with this design? Following Sherlock's method, she held the box at different angles, trying to see what he saw.

What was it about _March_ and her birthday that …

And then she realised, and she saw.

The constellation of Aries. Her birthsign.

Mycroft had commissioned a piece of jewellery based on her birthday, made from her favourite metal and stones. Her heart flipped over. She had no words.

"Appropriate is an understatement," she husked, eventually. "Mycroft, it's _unbelievable_," she whispered. "It's wonderful."

"Do you really like it?" he met her eyes as she reached for his hand.

Unable to speak for a moment, Cate nodded, a sudden tightness in her throat. She squeezed his fingers. He stroked her skin with his thumb.

"Then I may as well present my gift to you," Sherlock stood easily and walked over to the nearest bookcase and reached up to the highest shelf to retrieve his violin and bow.

Returning, he stood, equidistant between the fireplace and the tree, and took a breath. Placing the instrument under his chin, Sherlock began to play.

A simple melody, it evolved quickly into something far more complex: happy, jaunty, slightly ominous in minor keys, with wicked little undertones. It was delightful and a pleasure to hear. Cate had no idea he could handle the instrument so very professionally – she'd never really had an opportunity to hear Sherlock play before now.

Drawing the last note out into a provocative question-mark, her brother-in-law held bow and violin by his sides, waiting.

Cate wasn't sure what was happening, but her skin prickled.

"Most appropriate," Mycroft gave his younger brother a genuine smile.

_Another_ appropriate? What was it this time? Shaking her head in uncertainty, Cate looked from one Holmes to the other.

"Why is this wonderful music appropriate?" she asked, totally at sea.

"_Wonderful_?" Sherlock smiled.

"Yes," Cate nodded. "It's exhilarating and serious and moving all at the same time, but why is it appropriate? I don't understand because I don't know the piece. Who's the composer?"

Mycroft reached down for her fingers again. "May I?" he asked, looking at his brother.

Nodding once, Sherlock made about returning the instrument to its case.

"Sherlock wrote it for you," Mycroft pressed her hand to his lips. "It's about you."

_No_. _This couldn't be_.

"This is what you think of me?" Cate squeaked, her voice cracking. _Oh Lord_. She was going to cry and Sherlock would despise her for it.

"I have to make some tea," she strangled, rising to her feet and moving swiftly out to the kitchen.

Sherlock frowned. "She didn't like it?"

Mycroft shook his head, smiling, resting his temple against two fingers with his elbow on the arm of his chair.

"On the contrary, Sherlock," John sat on the sofa, folding his arms and looking cheerful. "She likes it a lot," he paused, smiling at his host. "A bit too much, actually."

The younger Holmes was still unsure. This was paddling beyond the shallows of emotion and he was never really sure what was acceptable and what was considered unreasonable. He knew his own assessment in this area lacked a certain … insight.

"She didn't want you to see her cry, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke gently. "Cate was very moved by the thought you'd write a piece of music about her and even more affected because it was so pleasing."

"Oh." Looking somewhat mollified, Sherlock returned to the bookcase. "What should I do with this, then?" he said, bringing down a second violin and bow, that he and John had found in the attic and spent several hours cleaning, restringing and polishing.

"I was hoping Cate would consider a duet," he said.

Lifting his eyebrows, the elder Holmes took a breath.

"Later, Sherlock," he said. "Let her regain her composure, as I would prefer not to have my wife weeping on Christmas day, if possible."

Returning with a tray of tea-things, Cate was herself again. Walking over to her husband's brother, she smiled up into his blue-grey eyes.

"Brace yourself," she advised. "I'm coming in." Sliding her arms beneath his jacket, she encircled his chest in a brief but unstoppable hug.

"_Thank you_," she whispered, stepping back to pour the tea.

Sherlock looked at her with narrowed eyes, but made no comment.

Handing out the cups, Cate turned to her husband. "I have another gift for you," she said, smiling. "I hope you'll consider this as … _appropriate_ as the gifts I've had so far."

Stepping into the main hall, Mycroft heard a door open and close as Cate returned with a large and substantial cylindrical zipped case. In heavy-duty reinforced canvas, the case alone had a very business-like feel about it.

Placing it lightly across Mycroft's lap, Cate helped herself to tea and sat next to John, watching her husband's reaction.

Looking at her curiously, Mycroft unzipped the end of the cylinder and peered inside. A bulky roll of something pale, like paper but thicker, slipped heavily into his hand as he tipped the case. Far too solid and weighty to be merely paper, Mycroft's fingertips realised even before his brain that the material was vellum. Of the finest quality, his fingers held something he knew would be unique and uncommon.

"_Table_, please Sherlock," he said quietly, waiting as his brother cleared off a low occasional table and brought it over.

Carefully unrolling the thick scroll across the flat surface, Mycroft's breath caught and slowly released as he recognised what was being revealed.

A family tree.

The _Holmes_ family tree, to be more precise.

In the design of a stylised oak, the topmost branches were named for the varying levels of great-great-great grandparents along the paternal lineage, following the line of Holmes down to the present day. His and Sherlock's names were the lowest on the long list, at the base of the tree. Armorialled, illustrated and decorated in exquisite heraldic detail, the names of the Holmes' forbears formed a veritable pantheon of Generals, Admirals, Lords, Ladies and miscellaneous pillars of society down through the last three-hundred years. There was even, Mycroft noticed with interest, a Colonial Governor of Tranquebar.

The painstaking drawing and illustrative details must have taken forever – there were tiny gilded shields and arms, and the occasional stylised blazon.

This was a significant piece of his family's history and he had no doubt it was an accurate representation. The research alone would have taken months.

"How on earth did you find the time to dig up all this detail?" he asked, fascinated, turning the piece around on the table for Sherlock and John to see.

Smiling, Cate confessed.

"I recruited a couple of History postgrads to help with the primary research and data compilation," she said. "Some of the documents they unearthed were amazing in their own right."

"It would be informative to have access to those documents," Mycroft looked up at her hopefully.

"Thought you might say that," Cate smiled, pleased to have anticipated his request. Producing two more tiny USBs, she handed one to him and the other across to Sherlock.

"Scanned copies of every Holmes-related document we could find dating back to the beginning of the eighteenth-century," she offered. "I knew you'd both be curious."

Smiling his delight, Mycroft took her fingers in his again. "I shall make time to go through this magnificent document in the minutest of detail," he promised. "And the framing?" he queried. "Did you have any preference?"

"It's your gift, my love," Cate smiled happily. "Select whatever you feel most compliments the place you'd like it to hang."

"Here at Deepdene would be the ideal," Mycroft mused. "Therefore something glass-fronted, to compliment the style of these," he waved his hand around the room. The oils were formal land- and seascapes, framed in traditional, heavy-gilded mouldings.

"Perfect," Cate nodded. "I think this will fit in well with such company."

Mycroft sat back in his chair, a look of amused serendipity on his face.

"What?" Cate waited for him to say what was in his thoughts. "Something funny?"

Shaking his head, Mycroft sat forward in his chair, bringing out a folded sheet of paper from an inside jacket-pocket.

"Only this," he said, handing it over with a faintly smug look.

Unfolding the paper, a letter, Cate noticed it was from the studio of a well-known contemporary portraitist. She'd seen the woman's work in several exhibits and admired the artist's use of shadow and the darker palette.

The letter was an agreement to a contract of commission. The commission was Cate.

"You want me to sit for her?" Cate was bewildered. "What for?"

The self-satisfied expression turned into quiet enjoyment. "_Because_."

"Evasion?"

"For private reasons, then," Mycroft was almost grinning.

Taking a deep breath and looking over at Sherlock and John who showed no inclination to leave the room. "Then we'll have a private discussion _later_," Cate smiled sweetly at her husband. Sitting for a portrait was not her idea of fun. She could paint herself, if it came to that.

Besides … Sherlock hadn't received his gift yet.

Giving Mycroft a look that suggested he would need his best argument later, Cate departed once more into the hall-cupboard, returning with yet another larger, rolled item. This one was of canvas, bound in a thick scarlet cord.

"You must have thought we'd left you out, Sherlock," she laughed. "Saved the best to the end." Handing her brother-in-law the rolled fabric, Cate sat back down by Mycroft's feet, wrapping an arm around one of his legs. A definite thrill of excitement crawled around her stomach.

At first doing nothing other than balancing the roll carefully across the palm of his hand, Sherlock looked first at Cate's avid little smile, then at Mycroft's enigmatic gaze. They had done something. He debated whether to have John open the scroll.

But Cate was involved in this and she'd be unlikely to set him up for anything unpleasant, unlike, of course, his _dear_ brother.

Curiosity winning out, he dropped his eyes to the cord; nothing special, normal haberdasher's tape, wrapped around and tied… and _sealed_.

This was interesting. The seal was of standard red sealing-wax, but a fine impression had been stamped into the cooling wax while it was still soft enough to conform. The image was tiny. Fishing for his pocket-glass, Sherlock scrutinised the details. It was an impression from a signet-ring in the design of the Sun. Neither his brother nor Cate wore such a ring, nor did Nora Compton, so this was possibly something he needed to consider.

With a practiced flick of his thumb, Sherlock cracked the seal and unwrapped the roll of canvas, a genuine smile lighting his features as he realised his gift was a map.

Smothered in glorious detail; crowded with confusing imagery and frightening mathematic symbols; without logic or any discernible structure whatsoever, Sherlock allowed a massive breath into his chest. _This was more like it_. Not just a map.

A _treasure_ map.

###

The slowly rising tide was level with his upper chest now. It was so cold; Lestrade found he could breathe only in small, desperate gasps. The freezing of his lower body had moved beyond the point of pain, leaving only numbness. He couldn't have moved his feet if he'd tried; he didn't know where they were. Only a little higher, and he'd begin to float.

Unless, of course, the sheer weight of his thick winter coat dragged him down, but Lestrade didn't want to take it off just yet in case he lost it and froze to death when the tide went out. Assuming, of course, he was still alive to worry about it when the tide went out.

Swearing all manner of black fates upon the bastards who had brought he and Hamran to such an end, Greg found that anger made him fight just a little bit harder to breathe. Could he stay angry long enough?

The tide had surrounded the scientist too. Hamran was in it up to his thighs, whimpering as the brutally chilled water swirled around his lower limbs.

It had had been coming in for a good long while now and, seasoned Londoner that he was, Lestrade knew the rising level must hit flat-water at some point.

Gasping as a ripple of water reached the base of his throat; the policeman wondered what was going to finish him the fastest: the incoming water, or incipient hypothermia.

Was this his final Christmas?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_Surveillance Duty – The Divided Circle – Plans – The Major – The Search Begins – Lunch – I Know Where We Are – Eating and Thinking – LG11 TQR – Not a Peacock – Coffee? – Mulling, Or Something Like It – The Liar-Bird – Possibly Scotland – For Immediate Action._

#

#

Daniel, the CCTV technician, was still a little blurry-eyed from the parties of the last couple of nights. Trust his luck to pull surveillance duty on Christmas Day. Not that anything ever happened anyway, not on Christmas Day, not really. Life went down a few notches – shops were closed, certainly the big ones; roads were empty compared to the usual daily grind, even the airports and railway stations were more of a trickle compared to the flood of a working day. So perhaps he shouldn't feel too badly done by; triple time payment as well as a day-and-a-half off in lieu. Things could be worse. But first, he needed coffee. Quite a lot of it, and then he'd get on with the job of reviewing all the main inner-City records before deleting them to free up server-space. He already had a daunting stack of files lined up from midnight of the twenty-third – there had been quite a few big events going on and he still found it amazing that the kind of people one never expected to see appear in daylight would simply show up in full public glory. It was almost as if terrorists and criminals imagined there was a seasonal amnesty. And that, essentially, was the job: looking for the faces you didn't expect to see.

In the middle of looking for the big stuff, of course, there was usual mixed bag of muggings and brawls – last year there'd been that series of ram-raids which had the entire team making bets as to who'd accurately predict the location of the next one. The police got the thieves, of course, after the fifth raid. They'd been able to track a specific tattoo from one of the gang-member's arms. It was amazing the amount of detail the CCTVs picked up, especially the new ones, with automatic digital-tracking and links to all the key databases. It was a simple matter these days, to locate the tiniest detail; to observe the faintest movement and then to identify, almost down to fingerprint detail, who was doing what, where, and quite often, to whom. He might even get lucky and catch a few couples lost in the throes of passion; it was wild what people did when they thought nobody could see.

But first: coffee.

###

… _Here_.

Sherlock's fingertips floated over the map as if it were an Ouija board; pausing his delicate caress in the top left corner. It was a logical place to begin: all English-written documents read downwards and from left-to-right. Even if this map had been deliberately skewed, there would still be an underlying rationale, a natural direction to follow. Thus, in a creation lacking any formal starting place, he would commence where logic suggested he would find at least the thread of a beginning.

He had spent an entire thirty-minutes staring silently at the roll of canvas in his hands, and then stared at memorised images in his head after John had taken the thing away to have a look at himself. It was teasing, intriguing, if only momentarily _and_ _so happily __diverting_.

Cate's idea, of course, Sherlock looked at his sister-in-law over his steepled fingers. She would have come up with the essential concept and possibly the framework, while Mycroft would have been responsible for the details and elaborations. Sherlock recognised his brother's style a mile off, and some of these … _clues_, he had to smile a little, were so densely packed as to be indigestible. _Thank you, Mycroft_.

As if she sensed his gaze, Cate looked up from where she sat on the arm of Mycroft's chair, lifting an eyebrow at the younger Holmes before smiling and returning to point out another detail in the Holmes family tree to his brother.

He saw Mycroft's long fingers wrap lightly around her other hand, squeezing a little as he expressed his pleasure in the work, eyes crinkled in high good-humour. No doubt about his brother's feelings for the gift or the giver. The ghost of a smile curved Sherlock's mouth as he wondered if the Holmes line would end with them or if Cate might decide to do something about it. Had already decided.

And so he would begin … _here_; his fingers rested lightly.

Looking down, he saw a drawing of a small, vertically-divided circle, half white, half black. Beneath it the legend '_Though below, I am always first. I am predictable, yet I change constantly_. _I do not cease, but I may be paused._'

Below but always first? What was below? Numbers lower than others? Below zero? A thermometer? Temperature? Below something physical as in … below ground? Below a higher level? And what of the divided circle … the image of light and dark … Yin and Yang … good and evil, day and night.

And what could always be first? Something that always started a sequence? The beginning of a thing? _Alphabet_? How was the divided circle connected to being first? What came first? _Chicken or the egg?_ Heat always goes to cold; light always goes to dark. Entropic decay … _Boltzmann_ … S= k. log W …

_Of course_. A divided sphere; half light, half dark. The world rotating from the light into the dark: Earth's terminator… What was below in the world? What always would be first? _Underneath_. Downunder … Australia? Why would Australia always be first? In what? The divided circle … the light and the dark … _the light_. Daylight. Dawn.

"John," he asked, deliberately. "What do you know about Millennium Island?"

Looking up from a curiously drawn bird, John was thoughtful.

"Wasn't that the place where the twenty-first century officially began?" he said. "Some place that the dawn hits first?"

"The site of dawn," Sherlock mused. "The start of each new day …" His eyes widening fractionally, he smiled. _That was slightly clever_.

"What is always predictable but changes constantly?" he smiled again, "and is connected to the dawn?"

Making a puzzled face, his flatmate shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "Sunrise?"

"Very good, John," Sherlock tapped his fingers against his chin. "And what do we use sunrise to tell us?"

"When it's time to get up?"

"_Time_, John, _time_." Sherlock sighed. "Sunrise tells us the time … predictable, though constantly changing."

Standing, the younger Holmes looked into his memories of this house. Unless there had been some significant alteration, the biggest one was at the far end of the long gallery.

"Solved it already?" John looked up from his laptop where he was in the process of installing his gifted software.

"I may need your assistance," Sherlock was already half-way to the door, his long legs eating up the large space.

"Wait up, then," John dropped his computer onto the sofa and followed.

Mycroft looked at Cate's satisfied expression and tilted an eyebrow. Waiting until John had followed his flatmate out into the main hall; she pressed her face into Mycroft's hair and smiled.

"How long do you think it will take them to finish?" she murmured.

"Not before moonrise, at least," the elder Holmes was complacent.

"Ah, of course," Cate remembered one of the clues relied upon that event. "I'm so pleased he likes it."

Leaning back into the high chair to better see her face, Mycroft stroked a finger down her cheek. On top of everything else, he had married a kind person.

"Language is insufficient to describe my feelings for you," he said, softly. "I adore you."

Feeling warmth flush her skin, Cate braced her left arm on the far side of the chair to take her weight. Dipping her head, she placed a gentle kiss on her husband's lips. About to lever herself up, she squeaked as Mycroft drew her back to him.

"I'll fall if you do that," she smiled.

"Then fall," he said. "I'll catch you." His expression was tranquil. "I'll always catch you."

He tugged her yet closer and with another small squeak she slid, completely off-balance, into his arms, her ankles resting over the arm of the chair.

"Remember we're not alone," she laughed quietly up at him.

"I'll be damned if I can't kiss my own wife in my own house," he remarked, cradling her near and doing just that.

###

He could feel his feet again. Not much, and what he could feel was pretty grim, but at least he was alive to gripe about it.

Freezing and sitting exhaustedly back against the still-dripping wall, Greg Lestrade came to the gruesome realisation he'd not survive another, bigger tide. He was ice-cold and utterly without energy. Assuming he didn't die of exposure in the interim, there was no way he'd have the wherewithal to go through another event like that in his present state. He doubted the scientist was in any better situation.

There was only one thing to do, and he had to wait until their captors arrived back with food. While he still had little clue as to what the overall plan might be behind his kidnapping, he would have to convince them to take them somewhere else within the next twelve hours, before the tide – higher this time – peaked again.

If he couldn't convince them within that time, it wouldn't much matter what their plans were.

###

"Down here, John," Sherlock nodded, striding towards the far end of the open gallery. Looking over the solid oak balusters and rail into the hall beneath, John was starting to get a feel for the immense solidity of the place. It really was a big old house.

Along the wall behind him ran a series of portraits – probably the same people Cate had identified in the Holmes tree. There appeared to be a respectable number of paintings. Reaching the end of the gallery, enclosed now on both sides as they reached additional bedrooms, there were paintings on either wall. Almost at the very end, John stopped suddenly, brought up short by a familiar face. He stepped back a couple of paces.

"This is Mycroft?" he asked, tilting his head to see better.

Turning at the question, Sherlock glanced at the painting.

"Not Mycroft," a shadow of a smile. "Sir Jocelyn Theodore Holmes," he paused. "My father."

This was the first John had seen of either of his friend's parents. Knowing Sherlock was not the type to wax lyrical about family, especially with his brother in that category, John had never really discussed anything to do with the Holmes clan. It simply had not come up. And now it had.

"Spitting image of your brother," John looked closely at the man's features. Except for the eyes: those were cooler than Mycroft's. "What was he like as a dad?"

"Rarely around," Sherlock shrugged. "He was an Envoy in the Diplomatic Service for most of his life and was more likely to be seen at Foreign-Office soirées than at the dinner-table."

There was a hint of bitterness in Sherlock's voice. John looked at his friend carefully.

"There was trouble?" he asked.

"Not for Mycroft and I," the taller man exhaled. "But my mother found it hard at times to tolerate some of his indiscretions."

_Ah_.

"And your mother?" John was curious now. Half a story was almost worse than none at all. "How did she … cope?"

"My mother, Lady Elinor Margaret Holmes," Sherlock nodded over his shoulder. "Was a very clever woman."

Turning to look at the painting on the opposite wall, John stared into the deep-blue eyes of a stunning woman whose fair skin, dark hair and long, slender elegance were reflected every day in Sherlock's mirror.

"God, she's gorgeous," John didn't realise he'd said it aloud until he caught the amused look on Sherlock's face. "In a maternal kind of way," he added.

"But what _we_ want," Sherlock said, changing the subject. "Is down here." Leading the way, John found himself standing in front of one of the biggest and, quite frankly, the _ugliest_ longcase clocks he'd seen.

"Jesus, that's a bloody awful thing," the doctor couldn't help but comment.

"Indeed it is, John," Sherlock smiled faintly. "Which is why The Major is all the way down here."

"_The Major_?"

"Something of a family joke having to do with an elderly relative who refused to die," he said, quoting the clue. _'I do not cease, but I may be paused._'

"And this is where I need your help," Sherlock was already kneeling, opening the door of the clock-case to reveal a heavy brass dual-pendulum movement, each solid weight travelling from left-to-right as unstoppable as time itself. A heavy _tick_…_tick_…_tick_ spoke of history and of a place when such things as time were treated with due respect.

"It does a little trick when the pendulums are stopped mid-swing, but since I will need my hands free, I want you to … _carefully_ … grab the weights and hold them, when I say."

"Roger that," John watched the remorseless action of the near-silent mechanism.

"_Ready?_" Sherlock had his fingers poised at the join between the lower case and the upper portion of the device housing the clock movement. "Stop them… _now_."

Sliding both hands deep inside the case, John's palms met and gently held the cold metal weights.

As soon as the movement was interrupted, the clock groaned, clicked and groaned again, just as a tiny drawer sprang open right where Sherlock's fingers were waiting.

Inside the drawer was a shiny new one-penny coin. _Treasure_. Grinning at their success, he held up the booty as John restarted the pendulums.

"Did you know I wanted to be a pirate when I was very young?" Sherlock handed the coin to his friend.

"I believe Mycroft may have mentioned that at some point,' John stuck the treasure into his jeans-pocket and grinned. "What's next?"

###

He'd had his coffee. Actually, he'd had two and was now back in the Ops Room, queuing up the replays. He'd already set up the automatic face-recognition program always connected to a variety of the international databases of 'most wanted'; he'd also initiated the semi-automatic vehicle-tracking program linking satellite positioning to licence-plate visuals – this was dead handy in the big towns, especially when they were looking for someone who'd gone to ground. The first time the car registration plate was spotted after that, and all merry hell broke loose.

Sipping his third coffee, Daniel sighed and hit the 'Play' key of the first A/V file. This one was outside the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. He wondered how many terrorists liked Tchaikovsky.

###

Mrs Compton laid out a splendid lunch, although the full Christmas meal wasn't until the evening. Cate shook her head at the masses of food.

"Nora," she asked. "Do you honestly expect us to be able to eat all of this and still have even a tiny space for dinner?"

"Now then, Miss Cate," the older woman bustled over to the table with a dish of glistening black caviar and little curls of lemon-toast on a salver of ice. "You know I'm not going to be here cooking tomorrow, so a lot of this food will do nicely cold as a Boxing Day collation for everyone."

_True_. Nora was off to one of her cousins' places tomorrow – the car was coming for her in the morning.

"There's nothing stopping me from cooking, is there?" Cate was uncertain.

"Course not," Nora laughed. "But would you want to be in here cooking all day when you have that lovely husband of yours just dying to give you a cuddle in front of the fire?"

Unable to keep a straight face, Cate conceded the Housekeeper's argument. She looked forward to informing Mycroft of his responsibilities.

In the meantime, there was a pot of lobster bisque that smelled divine.

###

The steel door clanked loudly and then cranked open as the two men stepped inside with another bag of half-warm burgers and coffee.

Greg was so numb with cold that he could barely speak.

"Not much point bringing us that stuff if you're going to leave us here to drown, you stupid sods," he muttered.

"Got a bit damp, did we?" the taller of the two laughed.

"Nah, look," the other one pointed to the still-visible moisture high up the walls. "The tide's higher than we thought."

"If you leave us here until tomorrow," Lestrade coughed as the cold air bit into his lungs. "Then you won't need to bring any food as neither of us will be around to eat it."

"The boss won't like them snuffing it before he decides it's what he wants to do," the shorter man added. "He said to keep them alive."

Scanning the dripping room, the taller one made a face and sighed a begrudging acknowledgement.

"Yeah, I suppose," he said, pulling a gun. "Got the keys?"

"I'll do it," the first one said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a jangling ring of keys. Stepping towards the Inspector, the man – Lestrade decided to call him _Happy_ – fumbled for the shackle at his wrist, unlocking it and stepping back.

"_Up_," the taller one instructed, waving the gun towards the door. Heaving himself stiffly to his feet, Greg christened this one _Surly_, but did as he was told and dragged his shaking legs up the steps towards the door. He could hear Hamran's chains dropping to the stone floor behind him.

Following _Surly_ through the door, Lestrade discovered they were in a high, narrow tunnel, with even narrower steps at the far end. Managing the steps with difficulty – his legs were so cold he could barely bend his knees – they emerged at the top of the steep flight into another stone room, but this one was much smaller, well-lit and there were even some heavy old wooden chairs and a proper table. Over in the corner was an electric fan-heater, a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. Behind that was another door leading, no doubt, up to street level. Somewhere.

Still holding the gun on them, Surly had his compatriot chain their hands temporarily to the arms of the chairs.

"Give us some heat, mate," Lestrade was freezing, his soaking clothes and minimal body-heat making it almost impossible for him to dry out. "Hypothermia is no joke."

"Yeah, OK, for a bit, then," _Happy_ plugged the old heater into a dangling extension board and immediately, a wave of warmed, dry air began to fill the smaller space.

"_Eat_," the taller man dropped the bag of food in front of them on the table. With the immediate prospect of grim death removed for the moment, Lestrade realised he was starving. Sharing out the meagre packages between him and the scientist, he sighed in pleasure as he bit into the cold bread and meat. The coffee was lukewarm at best, but it was sweet and everything that wasn't actually icy cold was better than nothing. The food vanished in less than a minute.

"If we can't leave you downstairs," Happy said. "We'll have to keep you in here, handcuffed to the wall over there. You won't be able to move."

Glancing across to the far wall, Greg looked away quickly. He'd seen what he needed.

"It's better than the alternative," he mumbled. "Anyway, how come you lifted me?" he asked. "_Him_," he nodded at Hamran, "I can understand, but I'm just a copper."

"Stop asking questions or we'll put you back downstairs," Surly snapped.

"Can't help it, " Lestrade finished his coffee and wondered if he could get the heater brought a bit closer as both he and Hamran were soaked. "Occupational hazard."

"Well, let's not make it any more hazardous, shall we?" Surly was a good name for him, the Inspector thought. He really was a miserable git.

"So, if you don't want to tell me why I was snatched, how about telling me the ransom details?"

Both the captors laughed. "_Ransom_? You think we're doing this for a ransom?"

_No ransom? _They had been taken to keep them isolated, away from others. This meant they knew something that could be used for, or would get in the way of, a bigger plan … whatever it was. Lestrade wished he knew who the next victim was going to be – it might provide more of a clue to the entire situation.

"You said you'd be bringing someone else to join us," he said. "Do I know this person?"

"Too many bloody questions," Surly growled. "Any more, and I'll stick you back down the hole and you takes your chances with the water."

Lifting his hands in acquiescence, the Inspector shivered as the clammy weight of his wet clothes settled back against his skin.

"Any chances of something dry to wear?" Hamran asked. "We're both soaked and freezing."

"Be thankful you're not dead," the tall one retorted. "Get over there," he nodded to the wall.

Lifting themselves agonisingly slowly out of the chairs, Hamran and Lestrade shuffled over to the wall. There was a long, solid bar of iron embedded into the stone. Surly held a gun on them both as Happy wrapped their chains around the bar until only a small section was left, enabling them to lie down.

Opening the far door, the tall, miserable one took a look around the room to be sure they'd left nothing the captives might use to free themselves.

"Leave the light on?" Lestrade asked when he realised the two were about to leave.

"You expect too much," Surly snapped the lights off and clanged the far door closed. The harsh sound of an old key turning in an old lock, and then the faintest sound of fading footsteps.

Lestrade held his breath, for a moment, some of his troubles forgotten. The two men had left the outer door open for just long enough. He turned to Hamran who was trying to find a comfortable way to lie back against the wall.

"I know where we are," he said.

###

John heard Cate's call to come and eat.

"Lunch, Sherlock?" he said, hopefully.

"We already ate," Sherlock was focused on the next section of the map: a large letter 'W' beside a strange-looking bird. The legend read: '_I shine at every point, yet mostly now. Before I sleep, I will count twelve. Count four and two and look.'_

"That was breakfast."

"We already ate _today_."

"Yes, but … Mrs Compton is a seriously good cook."

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Sherlock swivelled on his heel and stamped back down the stairs to the kitchen.

"Eat, then," he said, throwing himself into a chair and staring at the map again.

"Sherlock keeping you busy?" Cate grinned, handing the Doctor a bowl of creamy soup and a plate of hot pastries.

"Ah well," John looked up from under his eyebrows. "You know how he is."

Smiling in agreement, Cate put a bowl of the soup at Sherlock's right, and slid a spoon into his hand.

"It's a little like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time," she said. "Academics get special training in it."

Looking up, Sherlock frowned. "In what?"

"Simultaneous eating and thinking," Cate peered over the edge of the map. "Care to try?"

Giving his sister-in-law a long and wearied look, he sipped at a spoonful of soup. It was rather good. Laying the map carefully away from the food, he pulled the bowl closer.

"Had much practice at cartography before?" he asked casually.

"Made a few in my time," Cate dipped a piece of toast into the caviar before squeezing a sliver of lemon over the morsel. "Why do you ask?"

"Any of them around here?"

"Nope," Cate grinned. "As if I'd leave you any more clues."

"Worth a try," Sherlock leaned over to snag a tiny curl of toast. "I must say though, I thought you could draw better than this."

"Better than what?" Cate's eyebrows lifted.

Pointing out the odd-looking bird, he made a face. "Not even physically accurate."

Sitting back, Cate helped herself to another scoop of the shining black caviar.

"You don't know what it is," she laughed. "Do you?"

Crunching the toast, the younger Holmes looked calculating. "I will."

Walking into the warm and festively-occupied kitchen, Mycroft smiled to see everyone eating.

"You have outdone yourself, Nora," he nodded his thanks. "This is wonderful."

"And everyone's presents is over there," she said, waving across the room towards the pantry.

On a clear section of stone worktop stood several bottles of red wine with carefully hand-written labels and beside each, clear, individual packages of home-made confections.

"Made you all my granny's Christmas-claret wine recipe," she said, smiling. "Which'll keep you warm no matter the cold outside. And something sweet for afters," she added. "Merry Christmas, to the Family Holmes."

"Nora, this is fabulous," Cate looked at the wine before turning to the older woman and giving her a hug. "It's very thoughtful of you to go to so much trouble and we will all be entirely happy to toast your good health at the New Year."

The Housekeeper smiled, satisfied. "Best to mull it to get the most enjoyment," she nodded. "Was made for mulling, was that."

"I shall have Mycroft do exactly that while we're sitting by the fire," Cate winked.

###

He'd finally finished with all the main areas of entertainment – Drury Lane, Shaftesbury Avenue and all around the West End. He'd also gone twice around Covent Garden and Oxford Street, and was just starting to flick through the series of gigs that had run all along Southbank, all the way from London Bridge around the bend of the river through Southwark to Lambeth Bridge.

The usual things: an assortment of party-goers, buskers and tourists; a couple of drunks screaming incoherently at each other in some bizarre European dialect; a small group of young people running around knocking over bins and a wandering quartet of intoxicated _a capellists _giving a lively rendition of the Bells carol and being cheered along by a local audience.

Stretching and yawning, Daniel refocused his vision as a solitary camera picked up a moving vehicle which set off one of the system's alerts: it was for a plate-trace. Leaning in, the CCTV technician shuttled between the view on the camera and the flagged number plate.

_LG11_, a partial, came back up under his typed query. Dark Bedford van sought in connection to a recent kidnap of a Porton Down scientist. It was there, on-screen. _LG11 TQR_; a dark Bedford, travelling south along Lambeth Palace Road. The time-stamp said it was just after midnight of the twenty-third.

The young technician maintained his surveillance of the vehicle while sending out the relevant and expected alerts to the police and the Missing Persons database.

He stopped, his breath catching as he saw the van coast to a gradual stop and two masked men leap out to grab a man walking along the road. There was an immediate and extremely physical reaction from the unknown victim, a tall Caucasian male; he seemed to know how to take care of himself, even against two, well-prepared assailants. There was a vicious exchange of blows and punches, during which the unknown victim was stuck on the back of the head with the haft of a pistol, rendering him unconscious. The two assailants picked the man up and bundled him into the van through the side door, after which they drove off, still in a southerly direction.

Pausing the replay, Daniel did two things: he started the semi-automatic registration-tracking and called up the face-recog software. The assailants couldn't be identified as they were wearing masks, but the victim's features were as clear as day. Additionally, he wanted to see where that van had gone.

Flashing through a dozen and more databases filled with the scanned features of men, women and children recorded for any one of fifty different reasons, the Vision-Access software discarded non-matches faster than the human brain could assimilate such information. Criminal databases, missing children, wanted criminals, those on high-alert lists …

The scan stopped abruptly, its glowing screen repeatedly pulsing. _That was fast_. This meant it was likely someone high-profile – maybe someone on one of the red lists? With his ear to a telephone, the CCTV technician rolled his chair closer to the screen to better see the details of the man who been dragged off.

_Christ all-bleeding-mighty_.

His heart-rate ramping up, Daniel patched his next call into Scotland Yard, as well as to SOCA and his opposite number at the Home office.

Scooting back to the other side of the desk, the CCTV operator chivvied up the program tracking the van: it was now an imperative to find its current location, probable destination and ownership; the identity of the recent kidnap victim saw to that. Calling everyone he could think of informing, Daniel sat back in his seat, willing the tracking-software to be successful.

On the other screen, the identity of the most recent kidnap victim was both unequivocal and alarming, as the solemn yet handsome features of one Detective Inspector Gregory Paul Lestrade, pulsed with a dull glow.

###

'_I shine at every point, yet mostly now. Before I sleep, I will count twelve. Count four and two and look.'_

What would shine at every point? Had to be the Sun, of course, but what were the points? The capital 'W' suggested points of the compass, but Sherlock doubted Mycroft would have permitted him such a facile clue. No, there was more to it. And what of the odd-looking bird?

"What kind of bird does this look like, John?" he asked, squinting sideways at the drawing.

"Yeah, it's a bit strange," John had returned to attempting an upload of his new software. "Some kind of peacock, maybe?"

The drawing of the creature's silhouette was deliberately crude, no doubt Cate's attempt to obscure the clue even further, yet it clearly possessed long-tailed plumage that crested above it, as might a peacock's. _No matter_.

"Not a peacock … Bird of Paradise, possibly?"

"What has a Bird of Paradise got to do with the Sun?" John was fiddling with the USB.

"Don't know yet, but there has to be some kind of connection."

"And you expect me to see something that your genius detective brain hasn't?"

"Indeed: your ordinary brain takes a pedestrian view which I occasionally miss, John. This is why you're so helpful."

"My _ordinary_ brain?"

"_Different_ brain."

"Don't lie, Sherlock. You said '_ordinary'_ in a derogatory tone and you meant '_ordinary _in a derogatory sense." John was miffed, though he should be inured to such slights by now.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock smiled happily. "You're a genius."

"Now I'm a genius?"

"You said '_lie'_."

"I did?" the Doctor frowned, mildly confused. "I did."

"Not a peacock or a Bird of Paradise, John … a _Lyrebird_."

Craning his neck to look at the picture again, John saw how the tall curling feathers could be the tail of a Lyrebird.

"And so?" he asked, his _ordinary_ brain waiting for the next gem of enlightenment.

"And where do Lyrebirds hang out?" Sherlock tapped his fingers together. "Australia. And _when_ does the sun shine mostly in Australia? On the longest day."

"And when is the longest day?" John thought. "Our Winter solstice is the Northern hemisphere's shortest day and their longest?"

"Ah yes, the Winter, _capital 'W'_, solstice," Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and smiled again. "And now we only need to know how the long-shining sun connects to something that sleeps after counting twelve."

"Twelve months in the year?" John guessed. "Twelve Apostles?"

"Twelve hours in the day?" Sherlock smiled. _This was really rather fun_. "The clues are linked," he looked down at the map, quietly pleased that it wasn't unbearably easy. Another clock?

But what kind of clock slept after counting twelve? A digital clock? But that simply turned over; it didn't sleep.

"If it's another clock," John thought aloud, "then do you have one around here than only works during the day?"

Thinking, scanning his recollections of this house from his time here as a child and occasionally since then, as a teenager. A clock that slept at night …

"John, not only are you a genius, but you are a _confirmed_ genius," Sherlock threw himself out of the chair, racing to find his heavy coat and scarf. "Quick," he directed. "_Outside_!"

###

Although it was darker than sin in the smaller room, it was at least dryer and fractionally warmer than the icy, wet tomb beneath their feet. They were even able to have a relatively normal conversation.

"You got anything like a heavy-duty paperclip in your pocket?" Lestrade was running his fingertips over every last square fraction of the steel shackle on his wrist.

"Hang on," Hamran fumbled with numbed fingers. "Got a pin-on Smiley badge and a Parker ball-point," he said. "Any good?"

"The pen," the policeman asked. "Is the refill a metal one?"

"Actually," the scientist thought. "I think it is." It took a while, but eventually Lestrade had both items in his hand.

"A _Smiley_?" he asked as he pulled the steel pin away from the back of the thin metal cap.

"Not all scientists are introverted nerds," the Porton Down man muttered. He thought a little. "Yeah, well, maybe we are," he admitted.

Sliding both the fine metal tube and the more-or-less straightened steel pin into the narrow locking mechanism of the steel cuff, Lestrade took a deep breath and tried to relax as he moved the two probes in unison.

"What are you doing?" Hamran couldn't see anything, naturally, but he sensed the Inspector's movement.

"Trying something a friend of mine taught me," Greg visualised the mechanism inside … one of the things coppers were good at was locks. But his fingers were still very clumsy with cold, and twice he dropped the fine shard of steel, scrabbling around in the pitch black to find it.

Eventually though, he felt something inside give, just a little, and he went at it with renewed vigour. A few seconds later, there was a faint click, then a louder one, as the mechanism sprang open.

_Thank you, Sherlock_.

In a second, Lestrade was up on his feet, shuffling carefully over to where he recalled the clunky old light-switch being on the wall by the outer door. Finding it, he threw it on and in the next second plugged the heater back in, ramping it up to high. Finding a tap over a small grating by the door, he ran it: the water seemed clear and smelled okay to him; he filled the kettle.

"Coffee?" he asked, grinning.

Now if only Sherlock's trick worked on large Victorian door-locks …

###

"So show me how," Cate was curious. She'd never tried her hand at mulling wine before – never really thought about trying it before.

"You need to get the poker hot enough to make the wine sizzle, but not so hot that it will boil or explode," Mycroft wedged the old steel poker between two rungs of the grate, right in the middle of the red glow,

"It doesn't take long," he said, pouring an entire bottle of the spiced claret into a large pewter jug, the aroma hanging warm and fragrant in the air.

"Nora said you were dying to give me a cuddle by the fire," Cate laughed. "She's an old romantic, that one."

"A perceptive romantic," Mycroft smiled, sitting back into the sofa in front of the fire and pulling her unhurriedly to his side. "Now," he murmured, apparently fascinated by the soft skin under her ear. "Exactly _what_ did Nora say I was dying to do?"

###

Sherlock's long legs covered the snow-lade ground in great strides as John almost jogged to keep up.

"Where are we going now?" he asked, looking around for signs of a clock-tower or a window in the form of a clock-face.

"Through here," they passed through a small brick archway into a courtyard garden, Sherlock's eyes were fixed directly ahead. "And over there," he pointed at a low stone pillar in the middle of a wide space of lawn.

Reaching the waist-level construction, Sherlock brushed away the thick layer of snow to reveal … a _sundial_. The gnomon was in the shape of a bird. Ah, now it made sense. A clock that was only _awake_ during daylight.

"And now," Sherlock's gloved hand cleaned the dial surface. "We count four and two and look."

Finding the 'six', he dug down into the snow immediately beneath.

Nothing.

"Odd," Sherlock stood, frowning. "I was sure we had it right."

John laughed. "You're right about one thing," he chuckled. "You do miss the pedestrian. It was a Lyrebird … a _liar_-bird," he grinned.

"Ah, yes," his flatmate looked a little rueful. "Then perhaps if we tried four _minus_ two and looked …"

In the snow at the base of the sundial, lay another bright shiny penny.

"We're getting good at this," John laughed again.

###

It had completely vanished.

Daniel couldn't understand what had gone wrong with the tracking software. A vanishing van simply wasn't supposed to happen in the middle of London – _couldn't_ happen.

He returned to the captured feed from the night of the twenty-third and went through it again, checking and double-checking that he'd set everything up correctly. He had.

In one frame, the van was heading south off Lambeth Bridge, about to circle the roundabout over Millbank into Horseferry … and in the next, it had disappeared. But it hadn't reversed back over the bridge, nor had it veered off along Millbank Road, nor had it continued along Horseferry Road as had been expected.

Then where the bloody hell was it? He checked the CCTV feed several times … the van had simply vanished.

Sitting back in his seat, Daniel was baffled. The buildings there were all government offices; there were no garage doors it could have hidden within; no side-roads or car-parks … it was a mystery.

The phone rang … the police had begun the trace on their missing D.I. Apparently, his mobile phone had been discovered just outside the old RAF base in Kinloss, and his credit card had been used to purchase food in nearby Elgin, and was he _quite sure_ it was Lestrade on the CCTV feed?

How did someone, clearly taken against his will in London, end up two days later, buying dinner in Scotland? And how come he didn't report the kidnap if her was no longer being held? Was the entire thing a hoax? This was weird. _Unless_, of course …

Unfortunately, there was no CCTV coverage in Elgin.

###

Whenever one of theirs was in the firing-line, the London Metropolitan police tended to band together, regardless of whose patch it was or who might eventually get the collar. It was simply something you did for one of your own.

It was in this spirit that rostered-on-duty, Special Projects Investigator Detective Inspector Julia Garret was surprised, yet not _that_ surprised, when she got the phone call on Christmas Day afternoon. Her services were sought in relation to a, hopefully easily resolvable, matter involving the current location of one D.I. Greg Lestrade of the Homicide and Serious Crimes Command. There might be nothing to it. It might only take a day. Possibly a hoax. She should action the matter immediately.

Sighing, Julia closed her laptop. There'd been a faint hope she might get through the watch without major involvement before 8pm., at which point she'd have been as free as a bird. She'd had a dinner-date arranged and everything.

Lifting her desk phone she called Lestrade's division and introduced herself to the also-rostered-on-duty Sergeant Donovan.

"How well do you know your D.I.?" Garret asked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_Old School Engineering – Another Plan – An Interrupted Evening – Emergency Briefing – Bit of a Loner – Target Has Returned – D.I. Julia Garret – A Plan of Attack._

#

#

The temperature in the room was never going to even remotely approach toasty, but compared to what it had been in that black hole below, it was tropical.

Repeating the lock-picking technique, Lestrade had managed to free Hamran from his shackle too, and the pair of them had stripped down to underwear in an attempt to dry out their sodden clothing. In the meantime, they sat in front of the heater on two chairs and relished the sensation of circulation returning to toes and fingers.

"So what do we do now?" the scientist was uncertain. "Based on prior behaviour, they'll be back within the next fifteen hours or so with food. What are we going to do then?"

"With a little luck," Greg groaned as his legs started to warm. "We'll be out of here and long gone by the time they return."

"You think you can get us out of here?" Hamran was dubious. "Have you looked at that door and lock?" he asked. "There's serious old-school engineering in that door; not sure it's pickable with the guts of a pen and a bent steel pin."

"Maybe not," Lestrade was practical. "But there's nothing to lose by trying, and I really don't much fancy staying here, do you?"

Climbing back into still-damp trousers and shirt was not the most comfortable experience, but at least he wasn't going to freeze to death in them now. Greg walked over to the door; it was as Hamran had said. Prime Victorian cast iron door; hot-riveted and solid-as-a-rock. But now Lestrade knew exactly where they were.

When their captors had opened the door before leaving, he had heard the faintest sound of a series of church bells which he'd know anywhere. Westminster Abbey; the Christmas Day Eucharist Service. This dungeon was within earshot of one of the most famous churches in the world and Lestrade knew exactly how those bells sounded from anywhere in the City. This place was on, or rather, _under_, the western end of Lambeth Bridge.

Out beyond this door, probably up a small winding flight of stone steps there was a gate of heavy iron bars that he'd never seen unlocked and which prevented passage into this room from an obolisque on the shoulder of the bridge. There were two such monuments, one on either shoulder of the span and he was fairly sure this would be the one to the right of the bridge are you drove on to it from Horseferry Road. He'd often looked at the heavy bars of the gate from the outside and wondered what lay beyond. Now he knew. They were in a space built beneath the Thames Embankment itself, which had to date back to the time this entire stretch of the stone reinforcement was constructed in the mid-1860s.

This made him wonder some more. How had this place stayed a secret until now? What had it been used for in the past? How did Happy and Surly know about it if he didn't? Who was in charge of this situation? Leaning his back against the solid door, he sighed. Too many unanswerable questions.

In the corner, in a tiny niche, was an old torch. It still had power.

"I'm going back downstairs to have a better look at that room we were in," he said. "Coming?"

"Back downstairs, to that awful place?"

"Yup. Coming?"

"If you insist, but what if those men come back?"

"It's unlikely they'll come back and I want to find out if there's another way out of here," the policeman pushed his feet back into wet shoes. "We won't be long."

Stepping back down the narrow stairs and along the tight little passageway, they reached the watertight door. It was dogged shut, but there was no sign yet of water to be seen through the small porthole-type window. Heaving, the Inspector turned the screw-wheel open and the door clanked wide.

Shining the torch-beam over the walls and down to the bottom of the slope, Lestrade walked carefully down the slippery stone floor to the very lowest level of the cold chamber where he could hear, but not see the river. They had to be right under the Embankment-edge of the bridge. It looked as if there was an underwater entrance of some kind below the river wall, although he couldn't see how anyone might be able to use it in, say, a boat. Perhaps the entrance might be large enough to swim through.

There wasn't anything else left to look at where he'd previously been chained, so he crossed to the opposite side of the room where neither he nor his fellow captive had been able to see in the dark.

There was something there, all right.

"Hamran," Greg was pleased that his voice sounded reasonably calm. "Take a look at these, will you?"

"What is it?" Lestrade heard the scientist's cautious footsteps approach. He flashed the torch on the ground to help the man find his way a little faster.

"_These_," the policeman said, pointing with the torchlight. "What are these?"

Two tall and very slim gas cylinders: versions of the kind of steel canisters you might find in a hospital operating theatre. Each cylinder was attached to the wall by several wide bands of steel hinged at one side. Grey on the outside, one canister had red-and-black signs along the outside, the other had yellow-and-black ones. Both types of sign were of three linked circles connected by a fourth in the centre. Both canisters had the word BIOHAZARD writ large in substantial black print. Both had multiple black skull-and-crossbones icons displayed very prominently. There was heavy stencilled lettering running down the length of each one.

"Ah, damn and hell," the scientist sounded sick.

Lestrade developed a very bad feeling. "_What_?"

"Remember I told you I was listing toxins, and that there were a couple on that list you mightn't want to know about?" Hamran paused, taking a breath. "Well, allow me to introduce you to _Botulinium Clostridium_ and _Ricin Phytotoxin_, two of the nastiest and most lethal poisons ever created."

"These are deadly?" Greg had already taken a step back.

"If the Botulin tank was cracked and its contents escaped this containment area, London would be an open grave within five hours."

"And how is this stuff spread?" the policeman in him had to know. "I mean," Lestrade added, "it has to be spread somehow, doesn't it?"

"The Botulin is dispersed by the air, so simply taking it outside and unscrewing the nozzle would be sufficient, but the Ricin prefers a vector such as water. Chucking it in the Thames would be a good start."

"And how much damage could these tanks do?" Greg didn't actually want to know but still needed to ask.

"Both of these?" Hamran made a face. "Depends how they were deployed. Europe would almost certainly be gone, and then maybe Russia, Africa – depends on the wind."

"Are they safe down here?" the Inspector's voice was almost a whisper.

"Yes," the scientist seemed relatively upbeat. "As long as the canisters remain sealed, the cold and dark of this place is the best way to keep them inert. Start jiggling them around in heat and air … well, you just shouldn't do that."

"Then we can't leave," Lestrade swallowed in a dry throat. "We can't leave with these things still here, because they'll almost certainly take them away as soon as they see us missing."

He stared closely at the heavily locked steel fastenings, wondering if there was any possibility he might be able to finagle them open. These were very serious locks. Not a hope in hell.

"At least now I know why I was kidnapped," Hamran looked terribly depressed. "They obviously need someone who understands how these toxins behave, and I know all about them."

"Yeah," Lestrade rubbed his face. "And I'm getting the idea they lifted me just in case I spotted things going on around here and got too nosy."

"There may be one ray of light," the scientist said. "Both of these biotoxins have quite short elimination half-lives," he said, looking confident.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning once they're activated, they immediately start to decay and become increasingly less toxic after eight hours. After fifteen hours, they're completely inert."

"That's something, at least," the policeman was glad of anything positive, but now it was absolutely critical to let the appropriate people know about these canisters and to keep them safe in the meantime.

"Wouldn't your mob realise two of their killer bugs had escaped?" Lestrade brooded. "I mean," he said. "Don't you keep tabs on where this stuff is kept, or does it go missing all the time?"

"We've been undertaking a controlled program of _materiel_ destruction for the last fifteen years," the scientist sighed. "Hence the reason for my list. There are all kinds of stuff being moved all over the place. On paper, we know where everything is, but in reality … _well_ …"

Typical bloody bureaucrats. Lestrade took a deep breath.

"Whatever happens," he said, "those canisters cannot be permitted to leave this room," he paused, meaningfully. "We can't let them take these things beyond that sealed door … do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Even if that means we all die?"

Lestrade turned and stared at the microbiologist with a grim expression on his face.

"You could live with the alternative?"

Collin Hamran took a shaky breath. He knew Lestrade was right, he simply never imagined he'd ever be the one to have such a responsibility.

"If we have to," he sounded unutterably weary. "I'll do what I can."

Lestrade was peering down at a narrow gap running along the bottom of the lower wall – clearly where the river came in.

"I don't even know if it's possible to get out this way," the D.I. knelt by the wall.

The gap was about ten feet wide and less than eighteen inches high. "I still have no idea what this room was built for in the first place."

Removing his overcoat and his shoes, Lestrade got down onto back. The dark gap was just wide enough for him to inch his way through.

"I'm going to see if there's a chance we can get through," he said, placing it on the floor as he began to wiggle his way through the darkness.

It was very cold and very dark and the icy chill of the wet stones immediately soaked away any heat and dryness Greg had managed to retrieve. The gap was so low; he could almost feel the pressure of thousands of tons of Cornish granite pressing down on his chest as he wiggled his way slowly deeper into the channel in the wall.

The sound of water was getting louder, so the river must be merely feet away. Turning his head in the darkness, Lestrade could swear he saw daylight coming in from somewhere – if the tide was sufficiently low, then the light might be reflecting back off the river-surface.

He tried to wriggle closer, but it was no use. The gap in the wall was becoming even narrower and, though he was not a heavily-built man, he was still too solid to fit. He gave up and began the slow drag back to the stone room.

They would need another plan.

###

Sherlock's map turned out to contain ten clues. They had solved eight of them so far, although it was already getting pretty dark by the time John had found the small clock-face carving at the post-end of the attic banister. The now anticipated shiny penny had been stuck in the centre of it, with bluetack on one side to keep it secure, and a tiny circle of wooden veneer on the other to keep it hidden. The hunt was becoming quite the battle of wits.

By the time Cate announced dinner, in the formal Dining room for once; the younger Holmes had to admit they might not get through the entire map in the one day.

"It's not a race, Sherlock," John muttered, taking one of the heavy oak dining chairs and gazing around at what was a very stately room. "We're probably going to be here for at least another whole day."

High ceilings with beautifully detailed pressed tin mouldings and ornate carving abounded; glimpsed behind heavy burgundy brocade curtains, the long mullioned windows featured stained-glass armorials at the top of each narrow pane. The dining-table itself could easily have sat twenty people, but as this was a relaxed, family affair, Cate had arranged the table so they sat at one end.

There were two large, candle-filled silver candelabras to light their dining, and the crisp white damask table-cloth hosted a service of beautiful Royal Crown Derby Imari and an incredibly elegant suite of Irish crystal glassware. A centrepiece of Christmas lilies, the scarlet and green of holly and traditional silver compotes of fruit and nuts, completed the finery of the meal.

Mrs Compton had everything arranged for them before they sat, only bringing in the goose after they had finished a superb wild salmon mousse with a cranberry and champagne coulis.

John felt distinctly underdressed in his plain shirt, although Sherlock had found him a tie after he'd asked.

"Seriously, John, it won't matter," Sherlock was puzzled by his friend's desire to dress a little more formally. Usually John was all for the casual look.

"Maybe not to you, Sherlock," John muttered, fiddling with the four-in-hand knot. "But I'm not family and I don't want to have Cate thinking I don't appreciate her asking us down here when clearly she and Mycroft had planned a quiet week away."

"They did?" Sherlock frowned. "Why would Cate ask us to stay if they wanted privacy?"

"You seriously don't know?" John paused. Sherlock was a brilliant man, but some of the social observances simply did not register on his radar.

"If they didn't want us here, why the invitation?"

"Because, you idiot," John threw a cushion at his friend's head. "You're family and Cate didn't want you to feel left out at Christmas. Once she knew you had nowhere to go, then of course she was going to invite you, and, ergo, me too."

"And so you're going to wear a tie which you would normally avoid?"

"It's a matter of politeness, Sherlock."

The tall man looked uncertain. He understood exactly where he was with his brother. Mycroft would have no expectations about anything he might or might not choose to do, but _Cate_ …

He dug in his case and produced a second tie.

Thus it was that when their hostess summoned them to dinner, both guests looked as formal as it was possible for them to be, given their limited wardrobe.

Mycroft restrained an emergent smile and seated his wife, gesturing Sherlock and John to the chairs opposite.

"Please sit, John," he said, reaching for the iced champagne and pouring four ritual flutes. "A toast," he raised his glass to the entire table. "As Dickens had it, a Merry Christmas to us all."

Unsure what to expect of the evening, John found that, possibly because of Cate's influence, both the Holmes' behaviour was on the cordial side of civilised.

He'd never seen Mycroft looking so … _comfortable_, for want of a better description; his tone and manner far less critical and antagonising than usual. It was because of this perhaps, that Sherlock had little against which to rail.

It was late into the evening, well into the brandy-and-stories-by-the-fire, where Cate was explaining to Sherlock the different memory techniques employed by some of her students, when Mycroft's Blackberry rang.

Walking towards the window, the elder Holmes listened intently.

Sherlock's attention was diverted from Cate's description of Japanese origami mind maps by the sudden rigidity of his brother's back.

Ending the call and turning, Mycroft's face was dark.

"Inspector Lestrade has been abducted," he exhaled slowly. "And from the looks of it," he added, "by the same people who took the Porton Down RL1. All hell's broken loose and the Home Secretary has called an emergency meeting for midnight tonight."

"Witnesses?" Sherlock leaned forward, linking his fingers. "When did it happen?"

Looking wrathful, Mycroft rubbed his forehead. "According to CCTV evidence, just before one a.m. on the morning of the twenty-fourth," he sighed, frowning heavily. "The CCTV feed was reviewed hours ago, but it's only been in the last few minutes that anyone thought to advise the apex list. I really must put an end to these deplorable communication lapses on Public holidays."

"The police won't have a chance of finding Lestrade given that they haven't yet been able to locate the missing microbiologist," Sherlock walked over to the fireplace, leaning back against the wall. "You know what this means, Mycroft." Turning to his sister-in-law, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Cate. It's been quite entertaining."

Frowning, she looked between the brothers and turned to Mycroft. "Sorry?"

"Apologies, my love," he leaned down and squeezed her hand, his expression one of regret. "Sherlock and I must return to London immediately."

"_Tonight_?" she was dismayed. "_Right away_?"

"Sorry, darling, something bad is happening and I have to be there. It's possible Sherlock might actually be useful too." Mycroft was already back on his phone making arrangements for a car.

Looking askance at the 'might be useful' comment, Sherlock strode from the room. "Are you staying or coming, John?" his voice echoed back through the open doorway.

Her plans for a traditional holiday in disarray, Cate pouted. _Well_, she thought. _At least they had managed to have a proper Christmas dinner_.

"I'll go and tell Nora," she said.

"Stay, my love," Mycroft had his phone pressed against his lapel. "There's no reason for you to leave Deepdene so soon."

"There's no reason for me to stay if everyone else has left," she smiled. "Besides," she added, "We were planning to drive up to town on the twenty-seventh for that embassy party." Heading out to the kitchen, Cate went to inform Mrs Compton there'd been a slight change of plan.

"Car's on the way," Mycroft looked at his brother's flatmate thoughtfully. "What's the connection between a microbiologist from one of the country's most secretive military research centres and a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard?"

"Perhaps some association through an earlier crime?" John asked, thinking. "Maybe they both know whoever it is that's kidnapped them? Possible revenge for something?"

Sherlock threw his bag onto a chair as he stepped back into the room. "_Possibly_, John." A plethora of ideas flickered through Sherlock's brain as he toyed with possibilities before dismissing them as groundless.

"I'd better go get my things," John disappeared.

"There appears to be little commonality," Sherlock continued. "There is no obvious connection between the two, other than the most superficial, unless," he added, nodding at his brother, "it's something along the lines of John's idea, or it's buried deep in the past. I will need to review Lestrade's current case-load and the work-schedule of Collin Hamran."

"We are missing something vital," Mycroft frowned. "These are important men, men who play a critical role in their everyday occupation," he paused. "No one could expect to hide the fact of their disappearance for long, apart, of course," he sighed, wearily, "from the appalling breakdown in communications over the holiday period." The elder Holmes nodded to himself. "Which is why, of course," he realised, "they chose this time to commit such an act."

"Suggesting whoever's behind this knew about the communication breakdown?" Sherlock looked thoughtful. "That would argue whoever is responsible for these abductions may possibly know you too."

"The thought had occurred," Mycroft looked sour.

"Either that, or that a communications hiatus would simply be more likely at this time than at any other," Sherlock shrugged. "Irrelevant, in any case," he said. "We now know there is a link between the two despite our inability to see it. That is something I will correct."

Cate returned to the room and laid a hand on Mycroft's arm.

"Nora is going to make sure everything is switched-off or put away or whatever needs doing to make it safe before she leaves in the morning," she said. "I've thrown our overnight things and toiletries into a bag, and we're ready to go whenever you want to leave."

Laying a hand over her fingers, Mycroft smiled. "It's been a wonderful Christmas," he murmured quietly. "We'll come back after this situation is over, yes?"

"It would be nice," Cate smiled. "We still have to have an argument about me sitting for that portrait."

"I look forward to it," he brought the back of her hand to his mouth, pressing a light kiss against the skin.

The journey back up to town took longer than usual in the dark, snow-packed roads. Fortunately there was little traffic this late, but it was getting close to midnight when Cate turned on the light in their bedroom. Sherlock and John had been persuaded to drop their bags at the townhouse as well, given that Baker Street remained uninhabitable.

Alone in the house, she went around turning things back on and making sure the guest-rooms were ready. Sherlock and John had elected to be dropped off at the Yard to check Lestrade's current cases while Mycroft continued onto to the meeting in Whitehall where there was to be a briefing of apex-list members, including MI5 and the Met's Counter Terrorism people.

"Not the best first Christmas, darling," Mycroft muttered as he'd escorted her up the front steps of the house. "Sorry."

"It's been wonderful," Cate used his own words, brushing his lips with her mouth, sliding the bronze tie-pin below the knot of his understated cashmere. "Now go and be valorous."

He smiled. He would do his best.

###

"So, a bit of a loner, is he?" D.I. Garret sipped bad coffee from a plastic cup that burned her fingers.

Sally Donovan shrugged. "He's not stand-offish," she said, "but since the divorce, he's been a bit solitary, yeah."

"But no trouble with the ex, or her boyfriends … husbands of other women …"

Donovan choked, trying not to laugh. "Our D.I. and another man's wife?" she coughed as the hot liquid went down in a hard swallow. "Not bloody likely."

"Gay, is he, then?" Julia Garret didn't care one way or the other: her mandate was to find the man, not judge him.

"Not in the least," the Sergeant shook her head. "Although I'm sure there's one or two around here who'd try it if he gave them the come-on, but _nah_," Sally was adamant. "Greg Lestrade's as straight as they come … _ah_, pardon the expression."

Allowing a faint smile to curve her lips, the Inspector reviewed her knowledge thus far.

A well-liked, reasonably well-respected, competent, professional copper. Recently divorced, but no apparent problems with the ex, or anyone connected to that part of his life. No real debts, no bad habits other than a partiality for Indian takeaway, the occasional beer and a fondness for bad science fiction films. An average, reasonably decent, reasonably boring, man.

"So why would anyone want to snatch him?" Garret pondered. "No enemies other than, probably, few hundred villains he's put away; no problems with the ex; no money problems, sex problems, addiction problems. The guy's a saint."

Donovan looked down, smiling. "Not exactly a saint," she looked a little embarrassed.

The Inspector wondered for a second. A D.I. and his sergeant? Wouldn't be the first time …

Sally shook her head definitively. "Not what you think," she said, wryly. "Lestrade's got a … friend," she added. "Just off the Black Prince Road," she said. "Calls herself Annie."

"And this _Annie_," Garret narrowed her eyes. "Something of a problem? Anything I need to know about?"

"Not really," Donovan shrugged again. "He seems to take care of her, is all. Don't know the arrangement."

_So. No real problems other than, maybe, a tart called Annie._ _Then why, oh why, was he abducted? It made no sense. I need to see his files._

"Better we find the woman to be on the safe side," Garret mused. "Can you track her down first thing in the morning?"

Nodding, Donovan waited.

"Who else should I be speaking to?" Julia knew this couldn't be the end of it. There had to be more. Every D.I. on the force had more.

Sergeant Donovan hesitated. "There is another guy you might want to speak with," she said slowly. "His name is Holmes," she said. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Not one of us." Garret doodled the name, intrigued by the tone in Donovan's voice. Not well-liked, either, apparently – not by Lestrade's sergeant, anyway. "Does this Holmes chap work with your D.I.?"

"He fancies himself as some sort of consultant," Donovan made a face. "A real weirdo and a bit of a dick."

The D.I. smiled an inevitable smile. Just what she needed to round out the perfect Christmas day. An interview with a drop-kick. She hoped he wasn't.

###

"So he's back home, then," _Surly_ nodded as Mycroft's car pulled away from the townhouse. They had driven by in the van on each of the last three nights to see if their target had returned. Now he had.

"He's left his missus," _Happy_ watched as various lights went on behind the drawn curtains of the house. "We could probably nab her now if we wanted."

"Yeah, an' if we did, Holmes would be surrounded by bodyguards faster than you could spit," his companion scorned. "_Nah_. If we want to get her too, then we got to take them together."

"Fair enough," the shorter of the two men nodded. "I'll just check the van's plates are still masked and we can go. We can come back tomorrow."

###

It was way beyond late, but Lestrade was one of them and you didn't go home to bed when the life of one of your own was at risk. He'd been taken 48-hours ago, and everyone knew the chances of a successful return dropped with every passing hour. So his team would stay at the Yard until there was news. One way or the other.

And so would Sherlock and John, at least until Sherlock had the information he wanted.

"I need to see his case-load," Sherlock was quietly adamant.

"There is no way, under the current political leadership of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Mr Holmes, that this is going to happen," Julia Garret leaned back in Lestrade's chair and raised her eyebrows; the merest hint of a smile on her lips.

They were in Lestrade's office for connected reasons; the D.I. because she was still trying to get a feel for the kidnapped man's situation, and Sherlock because he needed to see what Lestrade was involved in that might predispose him to being abducted.

Sherlock's efforts to get into Lestrade's computer had all been going swimmingly until he walked into the solid wall that was D.I. Julia Garret. Sergeant Donovan had introduced them with a nasty little smile on her face.

"Thought you'd turn up, Freak," she mocked. "This is D.I. Garret who's heading-up the investigation from here." Donovan turned to Garret. "This is Sherlock Holmes," she introduced him. "He'll probably start demanding stuff in a minute."

It took Sherlock less than two seconds to see everything about the stranger that he needed to know.

Mid-forties, headed towards senior command but had come up the hard way; secure, confident, decisive type – had to be considering the sexism still rife in the force. Slightly above average height, slim, wiry build, an habitual jogger. Ex-smoker, liked hard spirits, probably vodka. Tinted dark-blonde hair with a few greys among them. Hazel eyes. Strong features, strong hands. Efficient. Calm. Not the type to rattle easily.

That last point was a nuisance.

Looking directly into the tall man's watchful blue-grey eyes, Julia had smiled coolly at Lestrade's D.S. _She had called him 'Freak'_. He was going to start demanding stuff?

"Will he, indeed?"

Things had gone downhill from there.

First, Garret wasn't interested in answering any of his questions until he had answered hers, an irritating waste of time, he felt, thus Sherlock had naturally demurred.

The Inspector shrugged. "Tell me what I want to know or I'll have several burly officers escort you to a nice warm cell while I verify your identity, an exercise that has been known to take hours," she clarified. "Your choice."

Leaning in his usual corner of the office by the darkened window, his arms crossed, John had snorted.

"And you are?" Julia assessed the blond man with a less-than-cheerful expression.

"My associate," Sherlock leaned his hands on the front of Lestrade's desk. "Inspector Garret," he said. "Your resistance is both futile and an ineffective use of our time."

"Then answer my questions and we can move into a more productive conversation." Resting her chin on her linked fingers, the Inspector waited.

"In one phone call, I can arrange to have Lestrade's files handed over to me; do you really want to be humiliated when I go over your head?" Sherlock leaned further over Lestrade's desk, almost in the woman's face. She made no attempt to move.

"If it will reduce the amount of time I have to listen to your posturing, please go right ahead," Garret narrowed her eyes, waiting. There was another, slightly louder snort form the corner.

Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Are you sure you want me to make this call?"

The Inspector was unperturbed. Let the civilian sound off; the only thing that would make any difference was if he could actually achieve what he threatened.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed slightly. "There is a problem with the police."

There was a pause of several seconds before he handed his phone across to the woman seated at Lestrade's desk. "The Commissioner would like a word."

"Hello? D.I. Garret speaking," her eyebrows lifting a fraction, Julia looked impressed. It was indeed the man himself. Excellent work.

"Yes, Sir," Garret nodded. "That won't be a problem." She handed the phone back.

She smiled.

"Thank goodness we can drop all the red-tape," her smile was genuine. "Very pleased to finally meet you, Mr Holmes," Garret stood, offering her hand.

Frowning, the younger Holmes was confused. The usual reaction to having someone pull rank was less positive than this. He took the offered hand. Carefully.

"And you have to be Doctor Watson?" the Inspector moved out around the desk and offered her hand to John as well. "I am a frequent visitor to both your websites, although I have to admit," she added, turning to Sherlock, "to occasional incredulity."

"You don't mind that I asked your Commissioner to demand you release Lestrade's files?" Sherlock wanted to be clear.

"Not in the least," Garret was flipping over a collection of notes, hunting for a password. "Far quicker to get a blessing from the top," she said. "And now we have _carte blanche_, which means I can show you anything you need." She smiled again. "Saves so much time in the long run."

John laughed. "Why aren't they all like you?" he asked.

"Because most of them are men, Doctor," Garret tweaked her eyebrows at him and handed Sherlock a piece of paper. "His last password as far as IT can estimate," she said. "Be my guest."

Throwing himself into Lestrade's chair, Sherlock entered the password. It took him straight through to the main portal, accessing not only Greg's current and recent files, but also his personal documents and emails.

"But only his work files, please," Julia had seen the slight inflection of his mouth as Sherlock watched the menu options appear.

"Of course, Inspector." Sherlock got busy.

###

They had decided to attack their captors as they walked through the door.

It was either that or re-shackle themselves into the steel chains, and Greg had a very definite feeling about doing that, in that he wasn't going to do it.

Hamran preferred the idea of playing possum so that they might at least get another day to consider their options and make plans accordingly, but Lestrade had vetoed the notion.

"We can't be sure they'll let us stay upstairs," he said. "And once they come in with that gun, we'll have virtually no opportunity to take them by surprise, so shanghaiing them by the door when they come in is our best bet."

"But what if they shoot us?"

Lestrade had forgotten the other man might not share his convictions. "Then they shoot us," he said. "But at least we'll have tried, and I'd rather get shot doing something for a reason than be stuck back downstairs to drown for no reason at all."

Hamran took a deep breath and nodded. "You're the expert on violence," he said.

The policeman gave a grim little smile. "And you're the expert on death," he said, looking around the small stone room for anything that might be an effective weapon. "A good match."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_An Assignment of Seduction – No Difference in the Long Run – You Can Sleep in My Bed – Waiting – A State of Indecency – Nobody Knows – Nothing Else To Do – The Meaning of 'Collateralisation'_

#

#

Mycroft had crawled into bed sometime after two. Cate knew this for a fact, as she had stayed awake until then, waiting for him to get home. She wanted to ask about Greg Lestrade.

It was dark when she woke the first time, only to feel a long arm wrapped around her and the warmth of his body along hers. Smiling, she leaned back into him, a wave of drowsiness claiming her, but not before she felt the press of his lips on the back of her neck and heard his quiet sigh as he relaxed into sleep.

The next time she stirred, her clock said it was still early, just after six. Turning carefully, she wanted to see his face while he was still asleep – it was rare for her to be the first to wake.

Looking across the pillow, she fell into the gaze of two blue pools.

"Did I wake you?" she asked softly. "Go back to sleep."

"You didn't wake me and I have no desire for further sleep," Mycroft's voice was quiet and vaguely rough, likely from hard-talking at the meeting. Perhaps this was not the best time to remind him of last night – her questions could wait a little longer.

"Then what do you desire?" Gliding an arm around his neck Cate pulled herself close and breathed in the scent of him: warm Mycroft, soap and a faint whiff of Hermès cologne. "Tell me, and you shall have it. Tea?" she murmured, brushing her lips over unshaven skin. "Eggs Benedict? A Nobel? Equatorial New Guinea?"

"Wife," he nuzzled the curve of her neck, his voice marginally rougher. "I want wife."

Enjoying the feel of him so close, Cate closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr Homes, but I'm afraid your wife wasn't able to make it this morning; she asked if I wouldn't mind holding the fort until she got back."

"Did she now?" there was a smile in his voice as he combed the hair away from her face.

"Indeed," Cate allowed her fingers to stroke down the outside of his bare arm. "However," she added in a business-like tone. "Professor Adin-Holmes provided me with a thorough brief, including some details I found quite interesting." Cate continued to stroke the surface of his skin, marvelling at its coolness against her own. She always seemed to be hotter than he.

"Such as?" Mycroft noted the dreamy look on her face, intrigued.

"Such as your liking for this …" Cate nibbled down his neck feeling his need for a razor, moving around the point of his jaw where she placed several breathy kisses across his throat, grinning as he inhaled quickly. "And this," she slid her hand slowly across his chest, resting her palm above his heart as she nibbled the outer edge of his ear. His heart thudded. Cate smiled against his skin.

"And who are you for my wife to entrust with such intimate details?"

"Who would you like me to be?" Cate kissed the corner of his mouth, drawing her nails gently down the back of his neck grinning as he hissed faintly, his body tensing under her caress. "I can be anyone you want."

"Well ... if you're standing in for my wife," Mycroft's hand slid into the curve of her waist, pulling her tight against him. "Then you'd better be Mrs Holmes."

"Not Adrine, the amorous Argentinean, or Mimi, the moody Moroccan?"

Pressing his head against hers, he smiled. "Where do you get these ideas?"

"Just want to ensure you're not bored, Mr Holmes. My organisation takes great pride in customer satisfaction."

"My wife is genuinely all I want and besides," Mycroft's fingers brought the perfumed silk of her hair to his face and whispered. "I wouldn't dream of having another woman in here without her."

_A statement that could be taken in at least two ways_, Cate realised.

"An admirable philosophy," she murmured, rising over him and staring down into a lazy smile. "I have full instructions on how to proceed, Mr Holmes, so please just lie still, and relax."

"I'm all yours ... _Mrs Holmes_," Mycroft lay on his back, holding her lightly, yielding to her playfulness. He wondered what she had in mind.

"Hands up here, please," Cate pulled both his arms up until his fingers curled loosely on the pillow above his head where she made sure he was lying comfortably.

"Your wife is a Professor of English, I understand?" Cate stroked his skin.

"She is," Mycroft became suddenly thoughtful.

"And I'm sure you're aware her work is based around the many and varied complexities of writing?" Cate lay carefully on his chest, the back of her fingers resting softly either side of his face.

"I do," he narrowed his eyes. She was definitely planning something.

"Excellent," Cate's smile was purposeful. "Because my brief is to write an essay."

"An essay?" Mycroft wrinkled his forehead. "Here? _Now_? On what topic?"

"Oh, the topic is _you_, Mr Holmes," Cate stroked his eyebrows with her thumbs. "I think it will be a reflective piece entitled 'The power of entreaty'."

Mycroft laughed quietly. "Entreaty?"

"Absolutely, Mr Holmes," Cate looked down into bright blue eyes, then she lowered her lips to his and slowly, slowly parted his mouth with her own.

"_The_," she nibbled his lower lip, "_Power_," Cate breathed deeply, enjoying the softness of his accommodating mouth, "_of_," using the tip of her tongue to caress the inner softness of his upper lip "_Entreaty_," she sighed, her toes clenching as a wave of heat rippled through her.

Mycroft's hands instinctively moved down to hold her close, but she dislodged them, placing them firmly back up against the pillow where she linked her fingers through his.

So, it was to be _that_ kind of entreaty. A particular smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"Not so fast, Mr Holmes," Cate murmured, continuing her methodical exploration of his lips; softly, gently, slowly, smiling as she felt his fingers flex between hers and the way his body tensed and shifted with the urge to control the kiss. She held his lower lip between her teeth and tugged it lightly as she wriggled her body to a more central position on his. There was a very un-Mycroft-like groan.

Lifting her head, she looked again into his eyes. They were a little darker now, hooded, as his eyelids flickered nearly half-closed.

"That was an abbreviated abstract," she said, smiling as his eyes slowly widened. "Now I shall begin the introduction."

Holding his hands more firmly against the pillow, Cate began kissing along the line of his jaw and into the hollows of his throat, humming lightly whenever she felt a pulse.

"The male erogenous zones lie in two distinct areas," she murmured, caressing his ears. "They appear to congregate around the head and neck area," she added, nibbling the place where his ear met skin.

Mycroft twitched with the desire to hold her, to do to her that which she was doing so very thoroughly to him. Cate's feather-light touches created an intangible sensation that pulsed deep into his chest and belly, a tingle that would eventually become intolerable.

"... and lower down the abdomen," she sighed against him, sending shivers along his skin. Relinquishing his hands, Cate moved down to his chest, kissing and stroking every line of him, every rise, every hollow, touching and exploring with her mouth and fingertips. Keeping one hand stroking his throat, she slid the other down the smooth muscles of his chest and stomach until she could feel the hollow of his pelvis. Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath as he felt her hand move so swiftly, wondering where her fingers might rest next. His heart thudded faster.

"Thus, according to the latest research, if one stimulates both zonal hemispheres simultaneously," she murmured again, stroking his ear with one hand while the other moved in small circles around the top of his thigh. "One may achieve some quite spectacular arousal in the human male."

Mycroft was caught in the crossflow of sensation as he felt his back begin to arch and his breathing stutter. The urge to move now was distinct. He definitely needed to shift his position, to react; anything, in fact, that might ease this achingly slow accumulation of tantalizing sensation. It was unendurable and yet he didn't want it to stop. Parts of him were already extremely interested in the conclusion of her thesis. His fingers dug into the pillow above his head as he swallowed another groan. His jaw tensed.

Closing his eyes completely he wondered how long he could bear this. The urge to take Cate in his arms and kiss her into insensibility, to have her mindless with need for him, was growing with every additional flicker of pleasure, every pulse of stimulation.

"How long is this essay going to be?" he muttered raggedly, biting back a hiss as her mouth brushed a nipple, carefully, deliberately.

"As long as it needs to be, Mr Holmes," Cate smoothed the fingers of her hand down and along his ribs to the point of his hip. "The creative flow cannot be rushed. You know how we writers are."

She stroked along the inside of his thigh. He stiffened again, trying not to bite his lip too hard.

###

There appeared to be an excessive number of marked police cars out on the city roads this morning. Looking out through a grimy window onto the street beneath, Surly made a face and shook his head.

"That's the fourth one I've seen in the last half-hour," he muttered.

"They won't find the van, and even if they did, it wouldn't really matter," Happy shrugged. "It's well hid, and the plates will get them nowhere."

"Yeah," the taller of the two nodded. "But there's no way we can drop off any food to our two love-birds if we can't use the van, is there?"

Realisation dawned. "Oh, yeah, see what you mean," he shrugged again. "So they go hungry for once," he scratched his head. "Not like it's going to make any difference in the long run, eh?"

"Yeah, but ... shouldn't we check on them ... make sure they're not up to something?"

Happy stretched, yawning. "They're chained and locked up tight in a stone room a long way below street-level behind two locked doors in a place nobody even knows exists," the shorter man sniffed. "What can they possibly get up to?"

The other man sniffed, nodding. "We'll be seeing them tomorrow in any case," he realised. "As soon as we've picked up Holmes."

###

"So," Garret sighed in annoyance. "Nothing?"

Sherlock stared out of the window in Lestrade's office, looking down at a Starbucks coffee shop he seemed to have looked at before. "Not a thing," he sighed, turning around and leaning back against the glass. "Not an unsolvable crime, not a hanging lead, not even a mysterious email."

"So we can postulate the reason behind Greg Lestrade's abduction is probably not in the computer?" Julia leaned forward, resting her head on the desk and rubbed her hair.

She needed sleep. Her brain was so wired with cheap caffeine and exhaustion that unless she slept away the toxins, she'd be utterly useless in the morning. She checked her watch. Which would be in about four hours time.

"I need a long glass of water, a few hours sleep, a shower and a decent breakfast, in that order," she muttered. "Problem is, my digs are nearly an hour away by bus or cab at this time of night, so it's hardly worth the effort."

"Come back with us," Sherlock said. "You can clean up and sleep and eat and we can continue this discussion."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "We're staying at Cate and Mycroft's, remember?"

"There's plenty of room at the townhouse,' the younger Holmes argued. "I doubt Cate would object."

"You're inviting me to come and sleep at a strange house that isn't even yours?"

"Seriously," Sherlock shook his head. "The owners will not mind. Inspector Lestrade attended their wedding."

"Oh, yes," John nodded, smiling. "I'd forgotten that he introduced them."

"Is it far?" Julia still wasn't convinced.

"This time of night, about six minutes by car." Sherlock opened the door and waited. "Shall we go?"

The fact that she might be in a bed of some description within the next fifteen minutes decided the matter. Grabbing her jacket and bag, Inspector Garret was on Sherlock's heels at they left the building.

###

They had turned the light off and the heater off and waited in silence for the sounds – any sounds – of footsteps outside the locked iron door.

Lestrade had the old torch in his hand as a club – not the best weapon against a pistol, but better than nothing. Hamran had his hands full of the coiled steel chain.

They stood, and they waited.

And waited.

"Either something has held them up," Lestrade muttered, "Or they're not coming."

"They might, still," Hamran was wound up so tight, Greg could almost hear his hands shaking around the chain.

"Yeah, they might still," he admitted, "but I'm buggered if I'm going to stand here like a bloody lemon, waiting." The Inspector flicked the light on and stared at the nearly-empty coffee jar. "Want a coffee?"

###

Hi didn't want to let her out of his arms, but it was inevitable.

"I have to go back to work, darling," Mycroft murmured into her hair. "Sorry. I'm not giving you a terribly good Christmas, am I?"

Cate smiled languidly, lazily, wrapped in the cradle of his body. "Have I complained?" she asked, stroking her face against his forearm.

"No, you haven't," he acknowledged, "but I think perhaps you should," he added, lying back and closing his eyes. "Please begin," he said, nobly. "I shall endure."

"The man I adore is an idiot," Cate leaned over and kissed his shoulder. "And it's past time we both were up, but I'll complain later if you insist." She stretched and yawned. "You want to shower first or shall I?"

"There's plenty of room for two," Mycroft's voice was mild to the point of nonchalance.

Sliding out of bed, Cate looked over her shoulder. "Race you," she laughed.

On one of Cate's old couches in the rear lounge downstairs, Sherlock lay supine, not asleep, but not quite awake. Inspector Garret had taken his room, so he'd lain on the couch, half-aware, half dozing. His body rested but his mind continued to unpick the mass of unyielding and conflicting data that clogged his understanding of the connection between the missing microbiologist and Greg Lestrade. They had both been kidnapped by the same men. There _had_ to be a link. Something in their past? But neither man had apparently ever met; there were no connections in their education, employment or social activities. They both lived in London, to be sure, but the city was a big place and there was no reason to expect them ever to have met. Yet, there was _something_ ... something just on the edge of thought, something to do with the city ...

He was sure the faint squeal he heard was female laughter. Since the Garret woman had no reason to be laughing in such a manner, then it had to be ... _ah_. Sherlock disposed himself in a slightly more comfortable position and waited. There would be tea, soon.

Mycroft was still adjusting his tie as he followed Cate down the stairs, reaching for her just as she was about to step into the kitchen. He felt like a teenager.

"When this is all over," his eyes were vivid blue." Would you like to go away somewhere?" he said. "Really away. The Bahamas, Vienna, Freemantle? Anywhere you wish."

"Only if you want to go," she sighed, sliding her arms around his middle and reading his expression. "I don't want to be apart from you right now for some unknown reason that may or may not have anything to do with the fact I'm insanely in love."

About to reply, Mycroft looked over her head to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Tea?"

Twisting in her husband's arms, Cate frowned.

"Sherlock, I am about to kiss your brother into a state of indecency, please go and put the kettle on."

Raising a single articulate eyebrow at the both of them, the younger Holmes turned on his heel.

"Indecency?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow of his own.

"Later," Cate whispered, brushing his mouth with her lips. "I was teasing."

"Good," he nodded. "Not sure I could handle being indecent again quite so soon."

Snickering, Cate pulled him into the kitchen where Sherlock was very pointedly watching the kettle boil.

He turned, suddenly.

"But of _course_!" he shouted. "The connection isn't with them, it's with their _work_!"

"What's going on?" John stepped into the kitchen to see his flatmate standing with his hands in the air, a look of surprise on his face.

"It's London, John," Sherlock groaned, holding his head. "_London_."

"What's London?" Julia Garret appeared trying to finger-comb her hair back into a semblance of tidiness.

Turning at the unexpected voice, Mycroft glanced briefly at the stranger, then back to his brother. "At least have the grace to advise us when we have a guest, brother," he said quietly.

John looked at Cate. "But you knew we were staying here and in the circumstances, we didn't think you'd mind having ..."

"You're not a guest, John," Cate smiled at the doctor. "You're family."

"... At having a senior police-officer spend a few hours," Mycroft's eyes flickered over Julia's hair, "catching up on sleep sacrificed in the hunt for Inspector Lestrade?"

"I would of course have informed our hostess that I'd invited a stranger to stay overnight, however said hostess was _otherwise_ engaged," Sherlock lifted both eyebrows pointedly and stared at his sibling.

There was a momentary pause.

"Quite," Mycroft cleared his throat. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, offering his hand to the Inspector. "My wife, Cate."

"D.I. Garret," Julia smiled, a little uncertainly. "Look," she said. "If this is all just too awkward, I'll head off right now."

"It's not awkward in the least," Cate stepped up and smiled. "What will you have first? Tea and a decent breakfast, or a shower and a change of clothes? You're a bit taller than me, but I'm sure I have something suitable for you to change into."

"A shower would be wonderful – other than the last couple of hours, I haven't stopped since yesterday morning."

"Right, then." Cate stood. "Mycroft, I won't be long; can you please organise the wherewithal for a proper breakfast and I shall be back to help you cook it." Leading the way, she took Garret to the guest bathroom on the second floor.

"There should be everything there you might need," she said. "Help yourself – there's all kinds of stuff in the cabinet and a dryer in the cupboard. I'll go and get you something clean to wear."

Stripping-off in the house of a complete stranger was not something Julia would normally consider doing, but it was a very nice house and this was shaping up to be something beyond the normal kind of job. It might be the last time she made friends with a hot shower for quite a while. She intended to make the most of everything and smiled in pure hedonistic pleasure when she saw the Ortigia toiletries.

In the kitchen, John and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as Mycroft slid his expensive jacket over the back of a chair before donning a long, white apron, tying it expertly behind the back of his perfectly-tailored waistcoat.

"I'm in the mood for crêpes," he spun a heavy pan like a tennis-racquet. "Anyone else?

"I quite like pancakes," John stared as Mycroft, with one hand, cracked two eggs simultaneously into a bowl.

"You quite like anything to do with _food_, John," Sherlock muttered, sipping his tea and scanning the screen of his phone.

"Crêpes and ... what shall we have ..." Whisking the batter, Mycroft wondered over to the large stainless steel refrigerator and surveyed the contents.

Nora Compton had packed up as much as she could of the cold food from Deepdene, plus there was still a ton of fresh comestibles Cate had stocked up on before they left for Surrey. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft began piling all sorts of fruit and yoghurt and soft cheese and bacon onto the bench-top.

Sticking her head around the guest bathroom door, Cate spoke above the noise of the shower.

"I've left a selection of clothes on the bed next door," she said. "Help yourself to anything that you like. I've also left a bag of cosmetics if you feel in the mood to do your face. See you down in the kitchen when you're ready."

"_Thanks_" Julia was about done in here, although the rich fragrance from the soap and shampoo almost made her want to do the entire thing again.

Entering the kitchen just in time to watch her husband execute a professional pancake-flip, as the crêpe in question fell obediently back into the pan.

Handing out plates and cutlery, Cate tipped out fresh blueberries, raspberries and a large punnet of tiny _fraises des bois_ into a large serving-bowl, with crème-fraiche, honey and a couple of sliced fresh mangoes. In the mood now for something a little more robust than tea, Cate pulled a large silver pack of ground coffee from the 'fridge. Within a minute or two, the Krups was churning out cups of the most chest-expandingly fragrant espresso.

Still weighing up the idea of London as the link between Lestrade and the missing Porton Down scientist, Sherlock barely noticed as Cate stuck a fork in his hand and placed a pancake laden with berries, honey and cream before him.

"Eat," she said, touching his arm, turning to John. "Sweet or savoury or both?"

Unwilling to appear a difficult guest, John deferred. "Whatever's easiest," he said, smiling accommodatingly.

"Because I'm having everything," Cate grinned happily, scoffing down a slice of mango and throwing slices of bacon into a frying pan. "I'm starving."

"You're always starving," Mycroft met his wife's gaze and smiled, his heart behaving foolishly as she smiled back.

Lifting his head, Sherlock's eyebrow twitched as he scooped up a forkful of raspberries, honey and crème fraiche. "I have no idea why," he muttered, a faint look of amusement on his face.

"That coffee smells heavenly," Inspector Garret chose that moment to join the motley crew. "And after last night, I could eat a horse."

Pausing the trajectory of his fork, Sherlock looked thoughtful.

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft placed espressos in front of both John and his brother. John looked up from his plate, frowning. Nothing had been said.

"Apparently, we're having crêpes this morning," Cate grinned at her unexpected guest who looked smoothly comfortable in one of her striped silk blouses, her hair tamed, a trace of lipstick. "There's tea and coffee, so have either or both as pleases you and only need to tell me what you don't want to eat," she paused, plate in hand.

"How exciting," Julia smiled winningly. "Just like being on holiday."

###

The Jaguar was waiting by the time Cate managed to catch Mycroft heading for the front door. Sherlock, John and D.I. Garret had headed off to Scotland Yard in a cab moments earlier.

"Darling," she put a hand on his elbow. "Is there anything you can tell me about Greg Lestrade's situation?" she asked, her expression worried. "I feel badly about this; he's been very kind to me and has been a good friend to us both."

Mycroft exhaled loudly. There wasn't a great deal of information to tell. Not yet.

"We know how and when he was abducted," he said, holding Cate's fingers in his. "We have conflicting ideas of where he might be right now, but the police and every branch of national security are tracing any and every possible lead," he paused. "Everything that can be done is being done."

She didn't want to ask, but she needed to know Mycroft's genuine thoughts. "Do you think he's still alive?" she asked. "I'm not naive; I know the odds of a successful release diminish rapidly after a few hours, but I want to know what you honestly think."

Looking into his wife's troubled brown eyes, Mycroft wished he had happier things to tell her, but she was quite correct.

"We don't know, my love," he said quietly. "Nobody can say for certain, but there may be other circumstances afoot that make this an unusual situation and therefore the normal rules may not apply."

"He was the reason we met," Cate's voice was very small and Mycroft's chest tightened at the sound of distress in her words.

"As soon as we have anything factual," he promised, "I'll call you."

###

"They're not coming," Hamran said for the fifteenth time. Lestrade agreed with the man, but wished he'd stop stating what was becoming patently obvious.

"I think we can probably say that they won't be coming to feed us today ... _tonight_ ... whatever the hell the time is," the Inspector was in a chair facing the door. They'd left the light on, reasoning that because they'd heard their captors climbing stone steps on their way out last time, they'd be able to hear them on the way back down, and there was no way this dim light could be seen through a solid door framed tightly by heavy stone walls.

Greg's stomach growled with hunger. By his reckoning, it had been at least forty-eight hours or more since he'd been lifted. Like any experienced police officer, he knew that the chances of any kidnapping having a happy conclusion shrank to almost nothing after the first day, but then, he rationalised, he and Hamran hadn't been kidnapped for a ransom. There was a purpose behind their abductions. If only he knew who this mysterious third victim was to be, he might be able to piece together the bigger picture, but there were just too many gaps in his information.

The only thing they could do now was wait. However long that had to be.

###

Back in Lestrade's office, Sherlock went immediately to the almost wall-sized map of Greater London adorning the long wall. All manner of boundaries and additional roadways, paths and unexpected short-cuts had been inked in, no doubt by the Inspector himself, as his beloved city grew and changed on a regular basis.

"The plates on the van were traced back to a scrap-yard dealer," Garret frowned. "Stolen, in that case, which leaves us exactly where we started."

"Where was this scrap-dealer?" Sherlock

"Back of Vauxhall rail yards," Julia scrutinised a piece of paper on the desk. "Been there for years, well-known in the areas for specialising in car-crushing – apparently the owner's got one of those mega-expensive automatic car-crushing machines that can take several vehicles at a time." As the words let her lips, a sickening idea stole into her mind. Garret swallowed.

"Unlikely, Inspector," Sherlock crossed his legs, still in thought. "There has been no ransom demand for either man."

"You knew what I was thinking?" the Inspector turned to look at John. "He knew what I was thinking?"

"He does that," the Doctor nodded, "but it wasn't difficult to follow your train of thought, you know," he lifted his eyebrows. "Even I made a connection between the disappearances and the car-crusher."

"But you don't think that's where they've ended up?" Garret wanted more information.

"No, Inspector, I do not," Sherlock sat up abruptly. "There have been no ransom demands, in fact no demands at all. That both Collin Hamran and D.I. Lestrade were taken by the same individuals speaks of rational thought and planning – both victims were taken for a very specific reason, after what must have been some quite considerate planning and preparation." Standing to look through the window at a grey winter's day, he sighed. "One does not usually do all of that only to throw said victims directly into the maw of a monstrous machine, unless one is of unsound mind or in the throes of a long-standing vendetta of some sort."

Sherlock returned to his chair. "And we have no indication that Lestrade was dealing with either an insane person or with anyone carrying a long-term grudge." Closing his eyes briefly, Sherlock switched his mind to the scientist. "Hamran is an introverted, unsociable type, who has few friends and fewer reasons to be murdered. The man's a mouse; he no more has enemies than a School-crossing Lady."

"But Greg Lestrade probably has enemies," Garret shook her head, "although if this were simply about taking him out, then there'd be no reason to snatch Hamran first," she nodded. "I see."

"What if Greg saw something he wasn't supposed to see?" John had been thinking. "What if he'd seen something to do with Hamran's abduction?"

"But if he had, he'd have said," Garret shook her head. "There was an entire day between Hamran and Lestrade's kidnap."

"What if he saw something, or knew something but didn't realise he knew it?" John was sure there was something in this, something that he wasn't able to articulate just yet.

"This is the point I reached earlier, John," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "I think Collin Hamran was abducted because of what he is, because of the position he holds and because of the knowledge in his head. The man might be a nonentity, but he's very knowledgeable in one particular area."

"Microbiology?" John frowned again, then thought. "Ah ... _Porton Down_ microbiology, I see now."

"I put a call into the Home Office for the release of Hamran's work-details," Julia rested her hands on Greg's desk. "The request has to go through all sorts of hoops and channels because of the Official Secrets Act, so I have no idea when we'll get to know what it actually is that Hamran does for a living, or what his current project is."

"You should have said earlier," Sherlock pulled out his phone and, almost immediately, was speaking with Mycroft. The conversation was brief on both sides.

"We should have the file, or at least, the information we need, within the next few minutes," Sherlock looked pointedly at the desk-phone. They waited in silence.

Garret jumped when it rang. "D.I. Garret," her voice was sharper than she'd intended. "Fine, thank you."

Turning to Lestrade's computer, Julia typed in her own account details to access the information just sent.

"An email?" Sherlock grinned momentarily. "Mycroft must have lit a fire under them for the powers-that-be to be so incautious."

"Not Hamran's full file," Garret took a deep breath, "but enough, I think," she paused, turning the monitor so both John and Sherlock could see.

The scientist's basic CV, his work history and experience, and ... Hamran's current project status.

"What does 'Collateralisation of restricted materiels' mean?" Julia felt she knew, but sought confirmation.

"Anything from Porton Down is restricted by the sheer fact that it's most likely deadly in some form or another," John sat back, an expression of distaste across his features. "It's the most secret research base in Britain, so we can make the assumption that the 'materiels' mentioned were very unpleasant things indeed."

"Chemical weapons?" Garret raised her eyebrows. "_Biological_ weapons?"

"Yes, to all of the above," Sherlock still had his fingers steepled. "But what puzzles me is not the what, but the why."

"I'm still not clear what 'collateralisation' means," the D.I. sat back.

"It's an old army term that was used at the end of the Second World War," John scratched his head. "When the war was over and everyone's armies were being stood down and demobbed, governments realised there were millions and millions of bombs and weapons and God-knows-what lying around, so much of the unused stocks were rounded-up and stockpiled before gradually being destroyed."

"Is that what it means?" Garret looked between Sherlock and John. "To have physical assets destroyed?"

"And if that's what Hamran was responsible for doing at Porton Down, we can all make a fairly good guess at the kinds of 'assets' he was rounding up and having destroyed," if anything, John's expression became even less happy.

"So if Collin Hamran was in the process of cataloguing and collateralising unwanted stock from the research centre, then he might have been taken because someone wanted access to the 'materiels' on his list." Julia took a deep breath. "I don't think I like where this conversation is going."

"We need to have more specific information on exactly what kind of stuff Hamran was working with, how it was being destroyed and ... one other detail." Sherlock's words trailed slowly into silence as his mind took over.

"What other detail?" John looked back at Hamran's CV on the screen.

"We need to know what's gone missing," Sherlock exhaled quietly. "It wouldn't have been enough to take the man; whoever wanted him would no doubt want what he was in the process of destroying."

"And if it was being destroyed by the Porton Down people, then we can be certain it needed to be very thoroughly eradicated."

"Oh, effing _Christ_," D.I. Garret sat, unmoving on the edge of Lestrade's seat as images of battlefield death and destruction swarmed through her mind.

Sherlock lifted his phone to his ear once more.

"Mycroft? I need data, and I need it urgently."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The Goose-Chase – A Suitable Mystery – A Serious Dress – Harsh Moonlight – Reasonable Cause – A Message at Breakfast – I Will Act Alone – The Beginning of the Last Day – A Glorious Scandal – A Widow, After Tonight – An Astonishingly Handsome Man – "I Never Presume" – Danger or Worse.

_#_

_#_

"It turned up _where__?"_

Collin Hamran's wallet had surfaced in Ireland. This was the oddest thing yet. Lestrade's phone discovered in Kinloss, his credit card used to buy food in Elgin, but not a soul in the shop, or indeed the town itself could recall seeing the man. Of course, there were always tourists, but someone tall and good-looking with a mop of silver hair and a London accent would have been remembered.

And now the scientist's wallet, contents completely intact, had been picked up from the cobbled square outside Trinity College in Dublin. This was bizarre.

What was Lestrade doing in Scotland and Hamran in Ireland? Or, if they weren't there, why had their belongings turned up in these locations? Of course, the local constabulary were in the process of conducting detailed searching of the surrounding areas, which meant things in London were a little on hold until the results of these searches could be absolutely verified as false leads.

Pondering the improbabilities, it was Julia's turn to stare out of the window, as she was still waiting for confirmation of Hamran's current project and for the list of materiels he had been overseeing to destruction. Over the last hour, she and John had taken turns to pace, attempting to exorcise some of the tension. By the increasingly black look on his face, it was clear that, while he lay stretched-out, almost comatose in his chair, Sherlock was about ready to explode with frustration.

"There's nothing you two can do here," Garret folded her arms and nodded at the door. "I have your mobile numbers and as soon as I have the information, I'll give you a shout. Why don't you go and see if you can help make sense of the CCTV problem with the disappearing van?"

"What disappearing van?" Sherlock looked up sharply, an even deeper scowl on his face.

"_Jesus_, don't tell me you haven't actually seen the CCTV footage?" the D.I. sighed, picking up the phone and arranging access to the large-screen viewing room. "Please take a look and tell me what you can see that everyone else, including myself, cannot. Room 440, down the corridor and it's on your left."

Relieved to be doing something other than waiting, Sherlock swept along the narrow hall, striding to precisely the correct door without so much as glancing at the numbers. It was dim inside, with several reasonably comfortable chairs scattered around in front of a large display-screen fixed to the far wall. On a long table sat a telephone, a computer and a DVD player, as well as a data-projector and a collection of remote controls.

John and Sherlock had just settled themselves into chairs when a WPC stepped in with a DVD. "We had the relevant section of the CCTV recording burned to DVD in case you want to take it away with you," she smiled, helpfully. "Call extension 114 if you want anything else."

With the door closed, there was barely sufficient light to operate the equipment, but once the disk was inserted, the play was automatic.

Lacking any introduction or run-in, the large display opened directly into the section of footage that displayed the dark Bedford van LG11 TQR. Both men watched in silence as the vehicle was first picked up by cameras travelling south down Lambeth Palace Road, the time-stamp in the bottom right corner showing it was shortly after midnight, at the very start of Christmas Eve, some two days earlier. Despite the early hour and the awkward brightness of the moon which tended to wash the colour out of everything, the quality of the recording was remarkably good.

"No wonder Mycroft likes these new cameras," Sherlock observed. "It should be possible to read handwriting with the clarity of this resolution. A theory deserving examination, at some point."

They watched the dark van move slowly in the direction of Lambeth Bridge, when it rolled to a halt some little way behind the figure of a lone male walking, collar up, hands-in-pockets, along the pavement. The brightness of the moon made it easy to see the pedestrian was Greg Lestrade.

The actual attack was brief and brutal, with their friend dishing out almost as much punishment as he received. There was a moment when it looked as if he might actually escape, until the taller of the two attackers struck the Inspector on the back of the head with what was clearly a pistol. The policeman folded immediately and was bundled without respect into the van through a sliding side door.

John winced when he saw Lestrade being struck on the head. "He might have concussion from that," he muttered. "A bloody awful headache, if nothing else."

Moving off, the van continued its southerly heading, one camera-feed showing it crossing over the bridge, arriving, in fact, at the south end of the bridge, when the view swapped to a different camera. In that one-split second, a single frame of reference, the van had vanished.

Stabbing the Replay button on the remote, Sherlock took the feed back to the moment before the camera-angles changed, pausing the feed.

There was nothing unusual at all in the picture; no other vehicles, certainly none sufficiently large to swallow a Bedford. There were no garages or other openings of any size at all, since all the tall stone buildings lining the southern end of the bridge on Horseferry Road were all government offices. There was only a roundabout, bisecting Millbank Road to the heft and the right of the bridge exit, with Horseferry Road leading directly away. There was nowhere for the van to go, unless it had driven off the bridge itself, but had that been the case, the bridge would be damaged; there would be evidence.

No. It had simply _vanished_.

This, of course, was patently impossible.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and smiled the smile of the righteous. "We have a suitable mystery, John," he grinned. "A commercial vehicle disappearing in plain sight on a bridge? Let's go."

###

With Mycroft back at his office, and John and Sherlock operating out of Scotland Yard, Cate was at a loose end. Normally, there were a thousand-and-one things to do when she was not actually at the university, but Greg Lestrade's abduction kept gnawing at her thoughts and she couldn't settle.

With a frustrated sigh, she went upstairs to organise her outfit for the following night's dinner, although she wasn't even sure now if she wanted to go, or if Mycroft would be free to attend. Still, she may as well go and get things organised – if nothing else, it would occupy her mind for a few minutes.

Stepping into the large dressing-room Mycroft used to have all to himself, Cate walked over to the tallest cabinet in the far corner. The entire room was laid out in dark cherry cabinetry; the rich grain of the wood complimented by understated brushed steel metalwork and the same plush, dark-grey wool carpet as the bedroom. All four sides of the dressing-room had been fitted with bespoke cabinetry and hanging racks at varying heights, with banks of both deep and shallow drawers. One entire wall was taken by Mycroft's suits, a veritable gallery of male couture; another wall was taken with coats and jackets, while the odd spaces between racks had been used for different types of shelving. One of the mirror-backed hanging sections was actually a door which opened into a small concealed room beyond, used mostly for miscellaneous storage and one impressively substantial safe, in which Mycroft kept his Ultra-private files and a selection of Cate's jewellery.

He had given her a mini-cab business card with the company's local number written large across the front.

"And I need this taxi company because ..?" Cate smiled, curious.

"You don't need the cab company," Mycroft smiled. "But that number's the current combination to my safe."

"Why do I need to know the combination of your safe?" she had laughed.

"Your jewels are in there."

"Darling, I have no need of jewels if you're not around."

"Nevertheless," Mycroft had dropped the card into a shallow bowl on the dressing-room centrepiece. "Just in case." Cate experienced a prickle of tension, knowing that such information was hiding in plain sight, though it would not be the first thing an intruder would notice in the middle of the room.

Indeed, the centre of the room accommodated a substantial and highly ornamental piece of cabinetry; essentially a cube, two sides were banks of shallow drawers for gloves, scarves and belts, the third, deeper shelves for hats, of which Cate had a few and the fourth, a built-in glass-fronted cabinet for watches and miscellaneous accessories.

Cate had laid claim to the tallest storage cabinet in the back corner for the few formal gowns she maintained. Before marriage to Mycroft, she rarely had need of anything more ceremonial than a cocktail frock, but as he was expected to attend formal events, naturally she was now being invited as well. It wasn't that she didn't like the fuss and ceremony of government affairs, although sometimes she wished she could bring a good book. The food was usually too rich; the conversation too stultifyingly correct and the arguments screamingly circular.

Not one to willingly play the mindless consort, she had learned that sometimes silence was the better part of official behaviour. If Mycroft could stand it then so could she, though she repeated some of the more inane comments to him in baleful tones once they'd reached the privacy of their home.

The event tomorrow night was a diplomatic bash for a change, this one at the Portuguese Embassy, a dinner celebrating their _Natal_ holiday and a party to which Mycroft had been manoeuvred into attending. As with most of the events Anthea diarised for him, his presence here would be less motivated by the festive season and far more by the political situation in Europe.

For once, given that it was Christmas, Cate had felt the urge to extravagance and had a new outfit made for the occasion.

As she opened the tall cabinet, inside its protective cover, the dress gleamed in the shadows. With a smile of quiet satisfaction, she lifted it off the rail and hung it on a display hook beside one of the full-length mirrors.

Of the most luscious dark-red, almost burgundy crêpe de chine, it gleamed with a dull opulence, the fabric having sufficient give to move with her, while clinging with the comfort of a second skin in all the right places. It was a serious dress for a serious party.

The halter-neck fitted snugly, leading down to a bodice that was quite literally moulded to her shape. The innocent-looking V-neckline revealed enough _décolletage_ to be considered sophisticated, while retaining an understated elegance. More or less.

The back was rather daring, another wide, deep-V revealing skin to below her waist, while the glow of material seemed almost glued to her slim form from beneath the perfectly-fitted bust-line down to her hips and knees, where the slinky skirt flared a little, draped higher at the front and nearly brushing the ground at the back. It also displayed a fair amount of leg. Lined in black satin, the dressmaker helped select the appropriate underwear, which, to be truthful, wasn't much. Nothing that might produce a line was permitted, and there was no way she could fit a bra into this outfit.

Cate wriggled in self-indulgent pleasure. Mycroft would either faint or suggest she wear a tarpaulin.

She had even ordered a pair of courts covered in the same dark red crêpe and, also at the couturier's suggestion, bought a Marc Jacobs black velvet clutch. Cate hoped the woman had been on commission.

Now all she needed were the right jewels. Diamonds would be ostentatious, but she remembered seeing a pair of dark ruby earrings in Elinor's collection. She would ask Mycroft to dig them out of the safe.

###

"There's a limit to what might be seen in this harsh light," Sherlock's torch wasn't up to much in the light of the full-moon, but he was already on his hands and knees, his head level with the freezing pavement, examining marks that were still invisible to John no matter how hard he searched. The blonde man looked fatalistic. Only Sherlock would consider moonlight 'harsh'.

They had arrived at the southern end of Lambeth Bridge some ten minutes ago, most of which Sherlock had spent either staring up in the air or lying down on the ground.

"So what have you found?" the Doctor muttered, shoving his hands inside his coat pockets. It was getting colder.

"I have found everything," Sherlock leaped to his feet, dusting his hands together.

"Oh, come _on_," John laughed. "All you've done is look up and look down – how can you possibly have solved the mystery already?"

"As always, John," Sherlock shook his head. "You see but do not observe. Look around you," the tall man's eyes flicked at the nearby rooftops. "What can you see?"

Looking as carefully as he could, John saw nothing … until he spotted the CCTV camera. It was the second of the two cameras used in the CCTV feed they'd seen earlier at Scotland Yard. It was pointing directly east, back over the bridge.

"And over here," Sherlock walked backwards towards the base of the obolisque on the right-hand side of the bridge, his long arms spread wide as his did so. "What do you see here?"

"I see nothing but a wide space of paving with a damn great big monument stuck in the middle of it."

"Indeed, John," Sherlock smiled. "How big a space of paving would you say this is?"

Tackling the amateur quantity surveying job in his head, John assessed the space and realised it was bigger than he thought, easily twenty feet each way, if not a little more. But that wasn't the question his friend was asking … there had to be more …

Suddenly, Watson realised exactly what he was looking at. "_Ah_," he nodded. "More than big enough."

The paved space was indeed more than sufficient to act as temporary parking bay for a Bedford van. This is how it had vanished from the CCTV feed: it had simply veered off and stopped on the pavement beside the obolisque, out of the line-of-view of both cameras. There was nothing mysterious about it at all. If the CCTV operator had bothered to check the camera-feed for another hour or so after the van had 'vanished' from the images, it would probably have reappeared on-camera in the same mysterious way as it had gone.

"But why park it here?" John spun around, trying to see anything that might provide a clue.

"This might have something to do with it," Sherlock had walked around the far side of the monument and now stood beside a heavily barred and exceedingly well-locked iron gate. It was far too solid to attempt to break open, and the lock was very modern and tough. Suspiciously so, in fact.

"I want to see what's behind here," the younger Holmes frowned, rattling the solid metal back and forward as hard as he could, but getting only the smallest clunk. "This gate has been replaced recently and painted to look old," he muttered. "Plus there's a tiny residue of recent mud just on the inside," he pointed with his torch. "This is important."

"So who can get us in here?" John was thoughtful. "The police?"

"I hope so," Sherlock started looking for a cab. "What's her number?" he asked, ready to phone Garret.

"Assuming you mean D.I. Garret, "John shrugged. "I have no idea what her number is," he made a face. "She's got our numbers."

"I'll ring and get them to transfer the call," Sherlock sighed impatiently.

After several abrupt conversations with different people, nobody, it seemed had the visiting D.I.'s number, nor did anyone know where she'd gone, but she wasn't in the building. A message would be left for the Inspector to call them as soon as she returned.

"_Damn_," Sherlock thrust his phone back into his pocket and started looking for a cab "We have to get back to the Yard and have a talk with D.I. Garret. We _must _get inside that gate!"

###

"Well, apparently, it can't be done," Julia Garret, back from a long conference-call with her Super on the Lestrade situation, felt like banging her head against something hard. The D.I. had spent the better part of the day trying to get through to someone, to anyone who might have the keys to the locked gate on Lambeth Bridge, or who could give permission for the gate to be opened by force. But it was Boxing Day: every last council-member on the face of the planet was at home or on holiday, today. There were no keys to be had for love or money.

"Unless you can find and use an oxy-acetylene torch to literally cut the thing away, I can't legally get it open for you before tomorrow, unless you know for sure that there's some cause or reason for the police to use physical force to obtain entry?" she asked. "Do you?"

"Yes," Sherlock stood, staring out of the window. "Although I can't provide proof."

"Then I can't authorise forced entry of heritage property," Julia blew out her cheeks and made a face. "Not without reasonable cause or justified suspicion, and I'm afraid that your deductive intuition is not going to cut it."

"My brother might be able …"

"Not even your brother can change the law of search and entry that fast, Sherlock," Garret looked weary. "Nor can I condone an illegal act."

"There is a good chance whatever's behind that gate is directly connected to the abduction of Lestrade and Hamran," he said, slowly. "I need to get in there."

"Let me see if I can twist a couple of arms," the Inspector picked up the phone again.

###

"What on earth for?" the Principle Private Secretary to the Home Secretary was on the phone with the Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

"_On Boxing Day?_ Are you quite mad? If you think I'm going to interrupt the Home Secretary's holiday because some amateur detective wants to open a private door in order to explore a 'hunch', then you clearly are mad," the man frothed. "I'll have a message for him at breakfast tomorrow morning. Good evening, Deputy Commissioner," he added, dropping the phone back onto its stand.

###

"No joy, I'm afraid," Julia Garret had spent the better part of twelve hours alternatively pleading and arguing. It was already dark outside. She ended a phone-call for the thirtieth time that day.

"If the police and the government will not see sense, then I will act alone," Sherlock drew himself up and strode from the room. Shaking his head, John unfolded his arms and followed suit.

"What are you going to do?" Garret shouted down the passageway after them both.

"_Keep watch_," Sherlock was already stepping into the lift as John caught up.

It was during that very long and very cold night, waiting on a bridge on the Thames in the depths of a British winter for something or someone who never turned up, that John realised moonlight could indeed be terribly harsh.

Crawling back to the townhouse after dawn as the morning traffic began for the post-Christmas sales, all he wanted was a hot bath and a clean bed. If Sherlock wanted to spend the rest of the day fruitlessly waiting at Scotland Yard, then he could. John was going to get some sleep.

Sherlock headed back to the Yard to press once again for permission to open or break through the gate as the base of the obolisque on Lambeth Bridge.

He had already decided that were permission not forthcoming today, he would take the matter into his own hands.

###

Time always passes slowly when waiting.

The Bedford van, its plates still partially and illegally obscured, was parked right on the corner just down from the townhouse. They had waited all day in the safe house, staring out at passing traffic and the continued flux of marked police vehicles. With all the coppers around, the only time Surly and Happy dared use the van was during the hours of darkness.

The plan was to catch Holmes and his wife as they came out of their house to go to the party, get them in the van and be rolling as soon as the door slid shut. It was already pretty dark and there was little traffic in this upmarket residential area at this time of day. It would be an easy lift.

Though waiting was tedious, both men had become experts at it in the last few days. The Principal who provided their orders had confirmed the Holmes' were slated to attend an embassy party tonight and that they'd be leaving their house probably around seven-thirty. It would be a relatively simple matter to pick them up.

The corner was darkly concealed beneath a large-boled tree, yet the spot was easy to drive quickly away from, and so they waited there for their third and fourth victims. Should be a walk in the park. They'd decided to grab the woman first to make sure Holmes came along nice and quietly.

They were there are the right time and in the right place.

Unfortunately for their plan, so were the police.

###

He was still fiddling with his bow-tie, slightly hunched in front of a long mirror, as Cate walked out of the dressing-room, sliding a lipstick into the velvet clutch.

"Would you like some help with that?" she offered.

Turning, Mycroft was about to demur when he saw The Dress.

Standing slowly upright, his jaw tightened fractionally as his eyes flickered over her body; the bare shoulders; the semi-plunging neckline; the silhouette-hugging fabric, the graceful, silk-clad curve of her legs. Narrowing his eyes, he moved an upright index-finger in a slow circle.

Cate could almost feel the vibrations of his thoughts. It was difficult, but by biting the inside of her cheek, she managed to keep her features grin-free as she pirouetted for his observation.

At the sight of smooth skin lying taut across the fine outline of her shoulder-blades and the track of bared spine curving down to her waist Mycroft was assailed by a pulse-throbbing flare of possession. Though he hadn't considered himself quite _that_ primal, the way she looked aroused a disturbing feeling in his stomach.

Returning to the mirror to finish the tie, he took a deep breath. "I hope that couturier only charged you for half a dress," he muttered, dryly. "Considering the end-product."

"So glad you approve, darling," Cate smiled happily as she walked over to the mirror now that he'd finished with his tie. She twirled slowly again for her own pleasure, skimming palms down the curve of her shape. She felt uncommonly sensual in this outfit and loved the appearance of being perfectly decent while feeling absurdly wicked.

Sliding into his dinner jacket, Mycroft stared at her again and cleared his throat. "Are you wearing anything under that _at all_?"

Hooding her eyes, Cate sashayed across to him. "You mean you can't deduce what I'm wearing under this dress?" she murmured provocatively. "Then perhaps I'm not wearing anything."

"Are you naked under that dress?"

Cate grinned and dropped the vamp-act. "Darling, we're all naked under our clothes, I don't understand the problem."

"The problem is that you've left yourself with a terribly narrow field of dance-partners tonight, my love," his voice was quiet.

Admiring the dress in the mirror again, Cate threw him a theatrical smoulder, batting her lashes. "How so?"

Staring over her shoulder at her mirrored reflection, Mycroft looked slightly pained.

"If you dance with any man over sixty-five while you're wearing that, he'll likely have a heart-attack and expire in a glorious scandal," he declared. "An event which would complicate my life enormously."

"And anyone below that?" Cate couldn't avoid the smile as she looked into his reflected gaze.

"You dance with anyone under sixty, and _I'll _be the one having a heart-attack."

Mycroft drifted his fingertips down her arms. "You are dangerously attractive tonight, my love," his lips ghosted across her shoulder leaving a wake of goose bumps. "Don't be too tempting."

Turning her head to meet his gaze, Cate laughed. "Is this the masterful husband?"

"Possibly. Does it work?" Mycroft smiled down at her.

"Does it need to work?" she teased, pressing back into the warmth of him.

"I'm approximately six seconds away from developing diplomatic flu and peeling you out of that gown," his eyes were dark and his voice gravelly. "Don't play with fire, darling."

The imperative in his voice spoke directly to her hindbrain and her heart pounded with it. _Oh God, oh God_. Her stomach clenched with pure lust. _He must never know this_.

Squaring her shoulders, Cate kept her expression bland and walked away to find her evening coat as her heart-rate slowed. Mycroft had suggested he buy her a fur, but quickly dropped the idea when he saw raised eyebrows and a solemn expression.

"You don't like fur?"

"I adore fur," she had nodded. "On the original owner." That had ended that conversation.

Helping Cate into the long black cashmere and stepping out onto the front steps of the house, Mycroft caught a lilt of her perfume as he handed her into the Jaguar, making him pause and inhale.

Sighting along the street, he observed a marked police-car parked beneath a street-light several houses down from them. Good to see our taxes at work, Mycroft always experienced a sense of validation when he saw uniformed police about their business. There was something terribly comforting about the police on patrol. He left himself a mental note to arrange a donation to the police widows and orphans fund. Anonymously, of course.

About to step into the car, he had a moment of oddness, as if something had unsettled him. It was a trifle vexing and he wondered what it was.

The car-ride was short and swift as the embassy was in Belgravia, only a suburb's drive from the townhouse, depositing them just late enough to avoid a crush of guests at the entrance. Escorting Cate up the white porticoed steps, Mycroft was already putting names to faces, watching those faces change as guests recognised each other. Most of the expressions were friendly, a few were aloof, some cool. One or two were unmistakably hostile. _Those were the ones to watch tonight_, he thought; the ones who preferred dogma to discourse.

Though technically they were on foreign soil inside the consulate and thus subject to Portuguese law, Mycroft was comforted by the knowledge that to leave Britain, anyone in the building would first have to set foot on British turf. Not to put too fine a point on things, on _his _turf. He wondered what the evening would reveal.

Greeted by the Portuguese Ambassador, His Excellency, Gaspar Aviz-Beja and his small blackbird of a wife, Edite, both Holmes' were welcomed into the noisy atrium of the frankly opulent residence. A massive Christmas tree graced the foyer, blazing white light and festooned with regimented golden swags, and tiny, fluttering green-and-red ribbons of Portugal's national colours. A quartet of classical musicians entertained with Portuguese nativity carols, and immaculately-clad waiting staff circulated with tray after tray of champagne. It was all rather jolly and festive.

Handing Cate a flute of fine bubbles, Mycroft steered a passage through the throng to the large ballroom at the rear of the mansion.

"Have you been here before?" Cate was curious. "You seem to know your way around," she paused. "Or am I asking a redundant question?"

Sipping his wine, Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked non-committal. "This is a semi-public place," he commented. "If you're Portuguese."

"You have Portuguese nationals on your payroll?"

Mycroft's smile was so fleeting as to be virtually invisible.

"Let me introduce you to some of the London characters," he murmured. "Your gift for language will make this so much easier," he stopped, thinking. "You speak Portuguese, don't you?"

It was Cate's turn to raise an eyebrow and smile. "Of all the Romance languages, I think Portuguese is perhaps the least complex," she said. "Why? Would it be more helpful if I played dumb?"

"You could never play dumb successfully, my darling," Mycroft's hand found hers and brought it to his lips. "You're too dreadful a liar," he smiled. "But if you were to hear anything unusual perhaps? Any words that might seem out of place?"

Smiling politely at a passing couple, Cate turned slightly. "What sort of words would you consider out of place?"

"Oh, just the usual," Mycroft lifted a hand in greeting to the Norwegian Consular Chief of Staff. "_War_, _bomb_, _guns_, _explosion_, _assassinate_; normal terrorist vocabulary."

Widening her eyes, Cate squeezed his fingers. "I feel like a secret agent," she muttered. "How thrilling."

Mycroft would be amazed if Cate heard anything half as dangerous as the words he'd suggested, but if she was listening for them, she'd be less likely to go wandering off. This point had become important since he'd finally recognised the uncomfortable feeling that had dogged him since they left the townhouse: it was foreboding.

Something inside his head was jumping up and down, flailing its arms, trying to catch his attention. It was making him edgy, though he still had no clear idea what it was, save that it began as they left the house.

Perhaps he was anxious about Cate's introduction into the Diplomatic world. Not that he doubted for a second her ability to handle these occasions, but some of the players in the diplomatic circus would deem her bait as soon as it was known she was his wife. That she was also strikingly attractive and – tonight especially – blood-poundingly desirable, would make the idea of leading her astray that much easier a gambit for some. She hadn't attended many of these international soirees with him yet; she was still unaware of the rules of the game.

In his government role, the idea of Cate being dragged into any international embarrassment would be alarming. As her husband, the very notion made him feel ill. Mycroft revised his thinking. Perhaps this party had been a mistake. They should leave; he could plead an emergency; a migraine, The Queen …

There was a flurry of Russian in his ear. Turning, he saw his wife being kissed soundly on both cheeks by Peter Danilovich Menshikov, better known to most people in European diplomatic circles as Baron Alexsandr Menshikov; Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Russian Federation to the Court of St. James's.

"_Mycroft_," the Baron was a cliché of Russian nobility: large, blonde-fading-to-grey, strong-featured and he _boomed_. "I can see now why you have never brought your enchanting wife to our little revelries before. "Tell me, my dear," the Baron turned back to a clearly amused Cate, his clear grey eyes more coolly assessing than his manner suggested. "Is it true that my favourite British official sleeps in Union Jack pyjamas?"

"Your Excellency assumes of course, that my husband sleeps," Cate's quiet words held nothing but polite sincerity. "And that he wears pyjamas."

Menshikov paused, considering her response, before a delighted grin covered his face. His laughter was as loud as his personality. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he looked back at Mycroft.

"You have chosen a clever one, _Tovarish_," his voice was softer, more confidential. "How are you? I have not seen you in at least two months. The Committee votes next week."

"Cate," Mycroft smiled quickly, drawing her back to his side. "Allow me to introduce Doctor Peter Menshikov, one of the most influential men in modern Russia." The two men regarded one another with equanimity. "And a very old friend of mine."

He looked back at Menshikov. "My wife," he said. "Professor Catherine Adin-Holmes."

"How lovely to meet you, Excellency," shaking the man's hand, Cate's Russian was like thick cream. "Perhaps we might discuss the ballet some time?" Managing a very credible Imperial accent, she smiled.

Menshikov made a dramatic face and clutched his chest.

"She speaks like an angel," he gasped, another huge grin covering his face. Lifting Cate's fingers to his lips, the Baron waggled his eyebrows at Mycroft. "_Ekaterina_," he murmured. "A magnificent Russian icon," he paused. "_Professor_? Beauty and intelligence is a combination I find difficult to resist."

With a passing glance at the Baron's generous waistline, Cate lifted an eyebrow. "_Only _beauty and intelligence?" her eyes were as innocent as her smile.

Menshikov stared down at her, goggling, before grinning madly across at his friend.

"I give you fair warning now, Mycroft Holmes, that I intend to steal your wife away and return to Russia," he declared.

"In the new Europe, how will you know when you're in Russia?" Cate was laughing.

"_See?"_ Menshikov looked at her husband and shook his head sadly. "_Clever_. I knew it." Smiling, the Russian diplomat bowed to her. "We might dance later?" he looked hopeful.

"It depends on your age, Excellency," Cate raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. "And the small matter of my husband's health …"

###

Standing, partially concealed in a pillared-doorway were two men in evening-dress. Both were watching as 'minor government official' Holmes performed his usual routine of meeting, smiling, nodding and moving on. There was a woman with him this time: this was a development.

"_Wife_," the taller of the two sniffed. "Been married best part of a year, apparently."

"_Fetching_," the other commented. "Wouldn't mind having her in an interrogation room for a couple of hours."

"Despite our dislike of the man, I doubt Mycroft Holmes would have married a fool," the first retorted. "She'd likely tell you nothing."

"You still believe Holmes would refuse to join our little cabal? I thought he was as pro-British as anyone could be?"

The tall, dark-haired diplomat next to him shook his head. "Not a hope of him joining," he said. "The man's an anachronism; a throwback. Still believes in the word of a gentleman and loyalty to the Crown, God save us all," Brushing a slim hand down an immaculately-tailored dinner jacket, he sighed cynically. "But not to worry, Holmes won't be able to cause us any problems after this evening."

"And the wife?"

"After tonight, she could be a widow," the tall man laughed lightly. "You might be able to have her quite legally; the grieving widow and all that."

Standing in the doorway, both men laughed again.

###

Despite Mycroft's dire predictions on the potential mortality of her dance-partners, Cate was having a wonderful time. While he was sat at their table discussing various political machinations under cover of the enthusiastic Latin-American band, she had danced with two Ambassadors; twice with Peter Menshikov; once with a rather charming Algerian _Chargé d' affaires_ and once with the husband of an American Senator. None of her partners had yet expired from cardiac arrest, nor, as she frequently checked, had Mycroft. The Senator's husband escorted her back to the table, smiling easily at the British official as he did so.

Mycroft nodded briefly at the man before settling his eyes back onto Cate. She looked slightly breathless and pleased.

"Don't flirt with Americans, my love," he advised. "They are such a serious people."

"I haven't flirted with anyone," Cate was mildly indignant. "I've been nothing more than polite and friendly all evening, and you know it, Mycroft Holmes."

"Looked like flirting from here," his expression was cool.

"Then dance with me, darling, and I shall flirt with you,' she smiled, lifting her hand.

Considering the possibility of her suggestion, he was almost about to stand, when yet another diplomatic Envoy caught his eye.

"I'm sorry, my love," he sighed, resigned. "Later, I promise."

Accepting the inevitable, Cate had just taken a sip of champagne when the band moved on from a finger-tapping Samba into the slower and far more dramatic strains of a classic tango. Cate wondered how anyone could listen to such music and remain still. The beat alone had her feet itching to be up and dancing.

"If there is one woman in this entire room who should be dancing to this, then it must be you, _Señora_," a smooth male voice accompanied the hand that held itself out to her.

Looking up, Cate saw an astonishingly handsome man with a teasing smile on his lips.

"You tango?" he said. "You _must_."

"I tango," Cate nodded, taking the hand, only then looking back at Mycroft, she saw him watching rather intently.

Noticing the exchanged glance, the man smiled easily. "Allow me to present myself," he said to them both. "Álvaro Ignacia de Borja Queipo de Llano," he announced. "Thirteenth Count of Toreno, at your service," he bowed microscopically.

Mycroft's nod was equally brief. "Good evening, Conde." He neither stood nor offered his hand.

"And you are the fabulous _Catherina_," the man smiled back at Cate. "The entire room is talking about you."

"I'm quite sure you are wrong, _Señor_," she said dryly. "I am a stranger and not in the least fabulous, therefore any conversation about me would be remarkably short."

Shaking his head in disagreement, the Count laughed. "But you will dance the tango with me, yes?"

"I will dance the tango with you, yes," she smiled, throwing her husband a look of baffled amusement as she stepped onto the dance floor with the extraordinarily good-looking Spaniard.

Mycroft was deeply uncomfortable. Even in diplomatic circles, De Llano was notorious as a womaniser. A sour feeling crept into his stomach; the sharks were already gathering. Next to him, the Envoy began speaking of border security, but the man's words faded into the background as Mycroft watched Cate step into the arms of another man.

_The Tango is all about touch_, Cate remembered, as de Llano paused – of course – in the very centre of the floor, moving immediately into a dramatic pose, hands at shoulder-level, his gaze focused entirely upon her.

Despite the desire to roll her eyes, Cate managed to maintain a straight face as she took a deep breath and mirrored his stance, staring up at him from beneath her brows, her shoulders back and fingers pointed downwards.

The music of minor keys swelled into the staccato beat of the dance, as the Count slid his hands over her body – not quite touching, but mimicking the movement of touch. Cate felt him move to hold her, his right hand lying lightly against her back as they stepped into the traditional _slow-slow-quick-quick-slow _rhythm.

Though the Spaniard clearly thought he was God's gift to women, Cate had to admit he knew the dance well, as she was led expertly around the floor, their movements increasingly experimental until she forgot her analysis and simply enjoyed the dance.

And while the sensation of another man's touch was strange, Cate had forgotten the sheer exhilaration of exciting physical expression as she twisted and swayed, a slightly wild smile on her face. This was _fun_.

As the dance reached its powerful conclusion, her partner dipped her almost to the floor, her back bent over his arm in a dramatic final pose as the music ended. De Llano held her there for a second before lifting her back upright, a huge grin on his lips.

"_Magnificent_," he whispered, his eyes dark, his voice compelling. "We _must _do this again."

"But not this evening," Cate walked back towards the table, laughing over her shoulder at the Spanish noble. "It was a wonderful dance, thank you," she smiled.

"The pleasure was entirely mine, _Señora,_" a curious look on his face, he smiled lightly, brushing his mouth against her fingers before walking away.

"_Phew_," Cate picked up her champagne and looked at Mycroft. "That was breathtaking," she said, only to stop short as she saw the carefully blank expression on his face. "What?"

"You are flushed," he observed, his tone measured. "A pleasant dance, my love?"

"_Wonderful_, thank you," Cate laughed. "The Count assumes he's the greatest thing since sliced bread, but he certainly can dance."

"You weren't overly taken with the _Conde_, then?" resting his chin on linked fingers, Mycroft looked at her assessingly.

"Brilliant dance-partner," she confirmed, sipping more of the cold wine. "His manner was a little overpowering for my liking," Cate fanned herself with a napkin. "Although I assume he's perfectly pleasant to his mother."

A small smile curled the corner of Mycroft's mouth as he scrutinised her. "Have I told you tonight how madly in love I am with you?"

"Not yet," Cate shook her head, a bemused look on her face as he reached for her hand.

"_Darling_," his fingers stroked hers. About to suggest they leave earlier than planned, he stiffened as a familiar and unwanted acquaintance paused beside their table.

"Holmes," the tall dark-haired man acknowledged, not even deigning to look at Cate.

Standing slowly, Mycroft stared coldly into the eyes of Sir Samuel Kinlan, a senior diplomatic attaché to the British contingent of _Europarl_. An outspoken voice in one of the most influential Standing Committees, Kinlan was an overt _Refusnik_ when it came to national borders and the immigration question. If he had his way, British citizenship would never be retroactive, or given to anyone beyond direct British birth. Rumour had it he'd pushed for the use of British armed forces to maintain border-security between Western and Eastern Europe and beyond.

Mycroft despised the man, his bleak utopianism and extreme right-wing politics.

"Kinlan."

"I will carry the committee vote," Kinlan's voice verged on threat. "And you will not be able to do a damned thing to stop me."

His face a blank canvas, Mycroft's words were soft and lethal. "You will not be permitted to win," he said.

Kinlan's features turned savage. "_You presume too much_," he hissed.

"On the contrary," Mycroft was reason itself. "I never presume."

"Cross me and there will be _repercussions_," the tall man was rigid with self-righteous anger.

Meeting infuriated eyes, Mycroft allowed his lips to curve fractionally, his voice still mild. "Don't let me detain you, Sir Samuel."

The silence between the two men was palpable, but Kinlan realised this was neither the time or place for open dissent. Besides, Holmes wasn't going to be a problem for much longer.

###

The evening had passed more swiftly than either of them had anticipated, and before she realised, the party was over and Cate was opening the front door of the townhouse.

Mycroft had confirmed tomorrow's time with his driver who had left scant seconds before, when she heard the hard-revving of an engine and the screech of rubber on dry tarmac. She turned to see what it was.

_Everything went into slow-motion_.

Out of nowhere, a large, dark van jerked to a halt in front of the house, front wheels bouncing up onto the pavement. Both front doors flew open as two masked men leaped out, grabbing Mycroft with vicious force and dragging him into the van.

Cate shouted, hurling herself back down the steps towards the attackers just as John opened the front door from the inside. In another second the Doctor was through the door, also heading towards the van.

Returning from another fruitless day of waiting and having left his cab a little further down the street, Sherlock was walking up to his brother's house just as the van mounted the pavement Hearing Cate's scream, he immediately sprinted towards the scene, arriving only in time to catch his sister-in-law from falling as she clutched desperately at a moving door-handle.

About to run after the van, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Cate to hold her still. The Bedford was already travelling at a dangerous speed and only injury or worse could come of her pursuit.

Struggling ferociously in his grasp, clawing at his arms to be free, Cate held one hand out towards the disappearing vehicle, screaming Mycroft's name until it screeched around the corner and was gone. In that second, she went limp.

"_Fainted, _John," Sherlock carried her through the front door. "You deal with Cate and I'll call the police," his pale face was grimmer than usual. "Now they'll have to let me open that bloody gate."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Left to Die? – Not Fine, But Calm – Damn the Consequences – The Final Decision – No Need for a Gun – Considered Most Dangerous – Mycroft Holmes is Dead – Go, My Love ..._

#

#

It had been so long since they'd eaten or had anything to drink other than vaguely potable water from the tap in the wall, that Lestrade was starting to wonder if their captors were ever going to return, or had decided simply leave them here to die. From a logistical point of view, it might be an easier solution than having to return at intermittent intervals with supplies.

Hamran had spent most of the last – what – _day?_ _Two days?_ carping and moaning about their situation until Greg was about ready to deck the guy.

"For God's sake," he'd said, eventually. "Give it a rest. We're stuck down here for the interim and no amount of bitching about the situation is going to make the damnedest bit of difference." The scientist had lapsed into a sulky silence from that point which, the Inspector had to admit, was only marginally better.

They had waited a very long time for their captors to return in order that they might at least have a chance at escape, but however many hours it had been, it still wasn't enough. In the end, the two men agreed to wait sitting-down as this took less energy, but they had their ears strained for the merest hint of sound. At one point Lestrade could have sworn her heard a faint _clang_, as if someone was at one of the outer gates, but there was nothing else. Even that had been hours and hours before.

The scientist was slumped over, dozing, with his arms on the table, but Greg didn't dare sleep; one of them had to be awake in case Happy and Surly returned.

Assuming they ever did return.

###

In possession now of all of Garret's phone numbers, Sherlock contacted her the moment he was able to lay Cate on a sofa in the lounge. John went to the kitchen to make a cold compress and look for smelling-salts.

"Inspector Garret? The kidnappers have taken my brother as their third victim," the younger Holmes was curt with necessity. "I am convinced that the gate on Lambeth Bridge is central to this investigation, please have the CCTV cameras monitor the locale until I get there."

There was a low squawk of debate at the other end of the conversation.

"No, Inspector," Sherlock was adamant. "I can't wait any longer for official sanction," he said, ending the call and sliding his phone into a deep coat pocket. He looked down as his friend laid a wet towel across Cate's forehead and uncapped a small glass bottle.

"How is she?"

"She'll be awake in a moment," the doctor waved the opened bottle under her nose, laying a steadying hand on her shoulder as she jerked up, her eyes hazy for a second before they shot wide open and stared first at John beside her, then at Sherlock standing a few feet away.

"_Mycroft_?"

"Cate, they took him," John spoke softly, his hand resting lightly on her wrist, feeling as her pulse jumped instantly to a frantic rate.

"Do you know where they went?" she pulled herself upright, unable to breathe properly, her voice raw.

"I believe so," Sherlock nodded, watching his sister-in-law intently. "There's a locked steel entrance on Lambeth Bridge," he said. "Everything we've looked at comes back to that place, but I've been unable to get access through legal channels, and I need an oxy-cutter to get in without the police, so I'm going to steal one," his blue gaze was unwavering in its promise. "I _will_ find him, Cate."

She found herself focusing on his eyes, different from her husband's and yet sharing the same intensity, the same ability to cut through surface matter to the realities beneath. Cate clung to the sensation of almost-Mycroft, using the brilliance of those eyes to pacify the fear and quell the panic. Like grey-blue stars, Sherlock's stare was an anchor in a dark space.

It was enough. Shuddering as tension left her, the moment of pause had given her brain time to gather itself and instead of anxiety, a chill sensation now flowed through her veins as cold detachment took its place. Cate suddenly felt nothing; no distress, no anger, _nothing_.

Everything became frighteningly clear and still. It was an unnerving relief.

"Then there's something I can give you to help," she stood, her voice curiously even. "Mycroft was trialling several different kinds of tracking-devices. I think he was using one tonight," she paused. "I'll go and check." Stepping quickly from the room, they heard her run lightly upstairs.

"She seems to be taking this altogether too calmly," John looked thoughtful.

"You don't think she is?" Sherlock frowned, looking towards the door. "You think she's going to fall apart?"

"I don't know," the blonde man shook his head. "She sounds reasonable but her pulse said otherwise," he made a face. "I know she's coped with frightening situations before – we've both seen her do it – but this is different."

"Of course. _Feelings_." Sherlock looked back towards the door, frowning. "Intense emotion."

"It's the acute emotional element in this situation that could push her too far," John took a deep breath. "We both know how she feels about your brother."

The two men were silent.

Upstairs, Cate had gone straight to the dressing-room, grabbed the business-card and opened the hidden door behind the mirror. Dropping to her knees in front of the large safe, she breathed slowly as she turned the dial forwards and backwards through the numbered combination of the lock, mildly surprised at the steadiness of her fingers. Not a slip, not a tremor.

The door opened soundlessly and Cate looked inside Mycroft's safe for the first time.

Internally about four feet high, there were three levels. The narrower top shelf was home to all manner of serious-looking documentation; stock lists, deeds and the like, each bound with the pink of legal tape. She also recognised their passports, her mind vaguely registering that there were four passports, not two, but there was no time to investigate further.

The second, deeper shelf, was itself divided up into six compartments; three above and three below, and was half-filled with boxes of her jewellery. One compartment was stacked with crisp, paper-bound bundles of various currencies, while another contained a collection of other, black-coloured boxes, the contents of which she had no idea. There was a miniature steel attaché case which caught her breath when she flicked open. A black gun nestled in a foam bed. Without a second thought, she put the case on the floor beside her.

In the last and largest section at the base of the safe, was a separately-locked row of steel-caged hanging files. These were Mycroft's Ultra documents. Cate neither knew what they were nor wanted to know. She was more interested in the flat container that lay in the middle of the lower three compartments directly above the files. She had watched him open it in the bedroom and knew what it contained. Lifting the tight-fitting lid, she saw five small sections, each containing intriguingly-paired devices, a smaller one and a larger partner piece. In two of these, the small pieces were missing, their sibling tech lying beside an empty space.

Cate noted distantly that Mycroft had been experimenting with two of them.

Taking one of the unaccompanied larger pieces, she replaced the lid and stood, closing the safe and spinning the dial. Returning to the dressing-room, she slipped out of her evening gown and into a pair of dark jeans and a long-sleeved black jumper. Toeing her feet into soft black trainers and swiftly tying the laces, Cate pulled an old leather jacket around her, shoving the purloined device into one of the pockets with her phone. Opening the case, she removed the gun and verified the safety was on. Remembering how John had checked the magazine, she did that too. It felt cold and heavy as she slipped it into her other pocket, a fitting match to her internal state.

Though her emotions were miraculously anesthetised, she felt an impossible heaviness throughout her body. She was not in a mood to be crossed. The idea of any obstruction was unthinkable.

On the way back down to the lounge, she stepped into her workshop – a tiny room virtually unused before she'd claimed it, and went directly to a deep shelf along the rear wall. Locating what she wanted in a moment, she continued downstairs.

Stepping into the lounge, both men noted her changed clothing but said nothing, though Cate's eyes were drawn to the look on John's face.

Despite all the varying aspects of his life, despite being the soldier, the friend, the reliable rock, he was always and foremost, a doctor. He had a doctor's expression on his face right now. She sighed. There was no time for this.

"I'm fine, John," she said, placing a small canister on a side table. "I've had my little tizzy and I'm calm now, here, _feel_ ..." walking right up to him, she held out her wrist. "_Feel_," she repeated.

Narrowing his eyes, John rested two fingers on her pulse-point. He didn't need a watch to confirm it was as steady as a metronome, sixty-four beats to the minute.

Cate might not be _fine_, but she certainly was calm.

"You'll want these," she turned to Sherlock with the small box in her hands. It contained Mycroft's tracking technology. She also pointed to the metal canister on the table: it was a disposable oxy-acetylene torch normally used by artists for working small pieces of metal.

"The cutter's only good for about ten minutes, after which it'll run out of gas," she said. "But it should be enough to get you through a lock."

Pointing out the twin to the remaining missing piece of tech, she blinked slowly. "I'm not sure how these things actually work," she said. "But the small piece is the location part, and the larger piece is the tracker. Since Mycroft is wearing the location piece, we should be able to track him with this part ..." she showed him. "Which fits directly into your phone and acts as a scanner."

"Cate," John said positively. "You know we'll do everything in our power to get him back."

Lifting her head towards him, Cate smiled a strange, tight smile. "I'm sure you will," she said. "Because I'm coming with you."

"Not a good idea," Sherlock shook his head. "There will almost certainly be violence when we find these men, and I do not wish to rescue my brother only to be roasted alive by him should you in any way come to grief."

"You won't let me come with you?"

Glancing at Sherlock, John looked back at her, shaking his head.

"Seriously, Cate," he looked torn. "Really not a good idea."

"Okay then, you'd better be on your way," Cate sat back into a sofa and linked her fingers. "I'll be here by the phone."

Frowning, Sherlock examined the ceiling. This was absurdly easy. She wasn't even attempting to mount an argument.

"You're not arguing," he observed. "And you always argue," he added. "And you're wearing a coat," Sherlock's raised eyebrow was eloquent. "An outdoor coat."

"Am I?" Cate's voice was oddly flat.

"How long were you planning to wait before you followed us?" Despite the direness of the situation, the younger Holmes was fleetingly amused.

"About five minutes," neither her expression or voice changed.

"You'd need a location device," John frowned.

"I have one."

"But you'd be alone ... without help." Straightening his back, the soldier in him added. "You'd be in danger."

Sitting forward suddenly, Cate's face was uncharacteristically hostile. "_They have taken_ _my husband_, _John_," she hissed. "_I _am dangerous."

"Plus, John," Sherlock nodded at Cate's left jacket pocket. "My sister-in-law has a little friend."

"Little friend?" John scowled. He didn't like what was happening.

"It's Mycroft's," Cate's voice was gentle as she laid the gun on her knee, shaking her head at John's intake of breath. "Don't worry, John," she murmured with the same offbeat smile, "I may not be an expert, but I know enough about these things to be safe with them and fire them," she paused. "Although this one was designed for a right-hander."

Her face was impassive as she stood abruptly, staring at Sherlock. "I'm not debating this further," she said. "Stay here, go elsewhere, or come with me, I don't care."

Fitting the homing part of Mycroft's tracker into her phone, Cate's eyes focused on the small rectangle of light as she walked towards the door.

###

Julia Garret stood once more by the main window of Lestrade's office, staring for a moment out at the dark deserted street below. She had spent the better part of three days in this damnable box, and now she was back yet again, to decide on the next course of action.

Assessing the situation, she realised that Sherlock was perfectly sincere when he threatened to do what he'd been wanting to do for the last two days. Privately, she welcomed his daring willingness to follow his convictions and damn the consequences, although she could do him little good without the police system to support him, and she couldn't make _that_ happen if he broke too many rules.

She had also read the list of _materiels_ being disposed of by Hamran. Several items were, as yet, unaccounted for. Garret hoped they had been merely overlooked, as the alternative was terrifying.

"Get me live all-camera CCTV coverage of Lambeth Bridge, _now_," she barked down the telephone. "And find me someone from the Serious Crimes command," she added as an afterthought. "I want a counter-terrorist squad ready to move the second I say."

###

With luck, this would be the last time they'd need to chance driving an illegally-plated van around the darkened streets of London. Tonight might even see the end of their current situation. The Boss had sounded pretty heated on the phone.

Looking over his shoulder at their unconscious passenger, Surly grinned. "Easier than I thought," he almost giggled. "Thought we was going to have all sorts of barney with this one, but he's as quiet as a lamb."

"He whacked his head as we chucked him in the van," Happy muttered. "He better not've carked it before the boss tells us that's what he wants or we're deep in it."

"_Nah_," Surly peered at the limp figure lying behind the seats. There was blood on the man's temple and on the white of his collar. "He's just a bit dazed is all. Probably come round when we takes him down the river, all that nice fresh air."

"What time did the boss say he'd be there?"

"He didn't," Surly made a face. "Said he'd be there when he got there, but didn't give no time or nothing."

"So now we have all three," Happy thought out aloud. "What are we going to do with them?"

"The Boss didn't sound too pleased when he called earlier," Surly looked sour. "I wouldn't want to be in these guys' shoes, put it that way," he said. "He was real pissed-off about something."

The traffic on the roads at this time of night so soon after Christmas was very light. By the time the Bedford reached Lambeth Bridge, the only vehicle in sight was an ancient Morris with two old ladies. They waited until the women chugged away.

The van pulled up onto the pavement where it usually parked and the lights went off. Waiting for a few minutes to be quite sure they hadn't been followed, the two men slid the side-door open and dragged a semi-conscious Mycroft out and onto his knees.

"_Quick_," Surly hissed. "Take his arm and lift him up so we can get him downstairs."

Getting their captive to the gate, Surly fitted the key and swung the heavy steel bars open. Scuttling in sideways to get both themselves and Mycroft through the narrow entrance, they closed and locked the gate behind them, half-carrying Mycroft as he sagged between them. The cut to the side of his head was still bleeding freely and his white shirt was almost sodden in places.

Pulling out the second of his two keys, Surly fitted it into the lock of the solid iron door at the bottom of a flight of steps. It was difficult trying to turn the heavy brass key and keep the somnolent man from falling. In the end, he gave it up as a bad job as Mycroft slumped heavily to the cold stone floor.

Finally getting the door open, the taller of the two kidnappers pushed into the darkened room, dragging Mycroft with them, only to be knocked half-senseless by a carefully-wielded steel torch. The light in the room was flung on and Happy blinked quickly, partially blinded by the sudden brilliance.

With a yell of adrenalin-fuelled aggression, Lestrade was on the man, punching and battering him into the stone wall, while Hamran was doing his best to keep Surly on the deck by alternatively standing and kneeling on him.

It was all going so well.

"I think not, _gentlemen_," the light, mocking tone of Samuel Kinlan's voice lifted above all sounds of struggle as he stepped through the open door.

Greg's stomach sank as he heard the distinct metallic sounds of a handgun being cocked.

"_Up_, please," Kinlan said, waving the business-end of a small pistol in Lestrade's face. "Can't have you upsetting all my plans, now, can I?"

Turning his head to inspect the limp figure of Mycroft Holmes, Kinlan smiled thinly. "Shame you didn't manage to get the wife as well," he mused. "She might have provided some entertainment," his smile grew cold.

"Take them downstairs," he directed Surly who had regained his feet and was kicking Hamran away in disgust. "I have no wish to keep our guests waiting any longer," his voice was devoid of compassion.

He had warned Holmes that there would be consequences to any interference. With the man out of the way and lacking anyone else prepared to supply a veto, Kinlan was confident the Europarl vote would go precisely the way he planned. He almost laughed at how easy this had been. _And if it_ _looked as if the vote wasn't going the way he wanted_ … Kinlan raised his eyebrows. There were the two rather persuasive _Arguments_ downstairs. It was quite appalling what terrorists managed to get hold of these days.

Jabbing the scientist with a gun, Surly prodded Hamran ahead of him towards the lower door. Rotating the locking mechanism until the door's watertight seal broke, Surly pushed his captive through into the icy-cold, dark space beyond.

Kinlan pointed his gun at Lestrade. "Take him downstairs," he directed, nodding at the still-groggy Mycroft. Ready to launch another attack, Greg tensed as Kinlan's gun aimed directly between his eyes.

"Don't be foolish, _Inspector_," the clipped British accent made Lestrade grit his teeth. Gathering Mycroft up, the policeman shouldered his burden and half-walked, half-dragged the elder Holmes into the stone room below.

The tide was already coming in; the leading edge of black water fast approaching the lowest shackle.

"Put the Inspector down there," Kinlan nodded down the slope of the chamber. "I want Holmes to watch him drown and know a brave man died because of his recalcitrance."

Realising that once he was chained, there'd be no further opportunity of escape, Lestrade was ready to chance both men and their guns.

Observing the rise of desperation on the policeman's face, Kinlan pointed his weapon at Mycroft's head.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer me to kill these two first, Inspector?" Kinlan smiled terribly. "While you attempt an escape?"

The policeman knew he couldn't do it. By the time he'd overpowered Surly, both Mycroft and Hamran would probably be dead and himself soon after. He couldn't end his days with the blood of two men on his hands.

"_You_ _monstrous_ _fuck_," he spat. "If you want me dead, at least have the balls to do it with a bullet."

His face empty of concern, Kinlan motioned Surly to chain Lestrade to the wall. A slowly-rousing Mycroft was chained to one of the steel chairs bolted to the floor, and the scientist was returned to his previous spot higher up the slope.

With a pitiless smile, Kinlan pocketed his gun and exited the chamber without a backward glance.

Standing just inside the door, the third and by far the quietest of the three kidnappers looked uncertain. He'd known from the beginning that the man in charge of this affair would have few qualms with the death of the captives, but now that push had come to shove, Happy wasn't sure how he felt about it. Could he really walk away from this place knowing these men would be dead within a couple of hours? Turning slowly, he left the room deep in troubled thought.

With a malicious grin, Surly clanged the door closed, spinning the locking mechanism from the other side.

The final decision had been made. It was done.

They were going to die.

"You awake yet?" Lestrade waded through the freezing, hip-deep water to the table where the elder Holmes was sitting up holding his head in his hands, his legs already chilling in the rising surge. The tide was coming in fast now.

"Where are we?" Mycroft dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and had it pressed against the side of his head.

"In an effing great big space under the western end of Lambeth Bridge," Lestrade sat in one of the chairs furthest from the flood, water up to his knees.

"And is Mr Hamran with us?" Mycroft twisted slowly, looking around until he spotted the microbiologist. "I see he is."

Lestrade smiled grimly. Exquisitely polite to the end, Mycroft Holmes was a class-act.

"Looks like we're going to die here," the policeman said, flatly. "The water is going to fill this room and we're going to drown," he said. "I hope your insurance is paid up."

"My financial affairs are quite in order, Inspector," Mycroft managed a faint smile. "Yet I have high hopes our collective demise will not eventuate this evening," he added, flipping back the lapel of his dinner jacket and revealing a tiny metal pin. Attached almost invisibly to the back of the pin was a scrap of what looked like glinting plastic.

"Latest in biotech," Mycroft nodded then winced at the movement. "Massively powerful location device, half-electronic chip, half-bioengineered power source."

Greg thought for a second. "It's technology powered by your own body?"

"_Indeed_," Mycroft looked relatively cheerful. "Transmits a signal up to three miles away under optimal conditions."

"Mycroft," Lestrade made a face. "We're inside fifty-thousand tons of solid Cornish granite," he said. "At least thirty feet below street-level, surrounded on one side by deep river and on the other by thick London clay," he added. "Far from optimal. What makes you imagine for a second anyone will know where you are?"

"Have faith, Inspector," Mycroft closed his eyes as the pain in his head thudded relentlessly. "There is always hope."

The freezing water drifted higher. It was up to Lestrade's waist now.

###

Even at this time of the morning, there were London cabs looking for a fare. Running down to the corner of the road, Cate raised her arm in a hail as she saw the 'hire' lights of one come close.

"Leaving without us, _dear_ Sister?" Sherlock's melodious baritone was at her ear before Cate realised she was no longer alone.

"You finally decided," abstractedly, she watched the cab pull into the kerb. "Don't get in my way, Sherlock," she murmured. It was clear she was not referring to the taxi.

He looked sideways at her, before turning to John who frowned and made a face.

"You know Mycroft's going to kill us slowly," John groaned. "Then he'll dismember us and feed our delicate bits to pigs."

"Despite the fact that Mycroft would likely effect his own release at some point," Sherlock scanned the small screen of his mobile. "The crucial matter of his immediate wellbeing outweighs his eventual and inevitable fury," Sherlock held the door as John stepped in, Cate following.

She was silent, barely registering Sherlock's comments. She wasn't thinking about _later_: it was all she could do to think about the _right now_.

His sister-in-law's acute lack of conversation was possibly problematic. He looked over her head at John, who, after directing the cabbie to Lambeth Bridge, sat back, still frowning.

"You'd better take this," Cate handed John Mycroft's gun. "I don't need it."

The soldier took the weapon cheerfully, while the doctor gave a small sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said. "At least now I can tell Mycroft you avoided a lethal situation."

Cate's face remained expressionless, although her eyebrows rose microscopically.

Sherlock was still looking at her oddly. "Been keeping up with the Hapkido?" he asked off-handedly.

"Oh, yes," she said quietly. "Quite good now."

He breathed lightly, adding this new tangle to his general awareness. Knowing Cate's preference for understatement, he realised her disposal of the gun into John's care had nothing at all to do with avoiding danger. She really didn't need it.

It would only slow her down.

###

The screening-room was standing room only as Garret and what seemed like everyone else still in the entire building piled in to watch what was happening on Lambeth Bridge. At this early hour, there was nothing to see, really, other than the odd car, a couple of which were clearly speeding, but nobody was interested in issuing a ticket tonight.

Several minutes later, everyone was still waiting.

Almost ready to consider that Sherlock might have got the wrong end of the stick, Garret watched as a pair of old nellies tootled past the camera in an ancient Morris Traveller that they probably had from new. They were arguing, a fact clearly seen as they were driving with the internal light on. In the room, several heads were shaken; there were a number of tired grins.

Almost immediately thereafter, a dark Bedford came into view. The audience stilled as the van again vanished from the screen, but as Sherlock had already demonstrated, it had merely moved out of the line of view.

Watching for a few seconds, still without anyone apparently breathing, two men, conveniently no longer masked, came into shot, dragging a third man between them. The third man was virtually unconscious, needing to be half-dragged and half-carried to the far side of the obolisque on the bridge's shoulder. The men went around the back of the monument, but failed to appear anywhere else.

"That's Mycroft Holmes in the middle, that is," Sally Donovan said, staring "Sherlock's going to do his nut."

"And that's the damned gate he was talking about!" Garret was on her phone in a second. "Get me a blow-up of the men's faces in the camera-feed, and then get a squad down to the west end of Lambeth Bridge with the right equipment to get through the locked steel gate embedded in one of the obolisques. Be advised," Julia added. "These men are to be considered most dangerous, are probably armed and have at least one hostage, possibly three, so officers to proceed with all due caution."

###

John was never quite sure how they did it, but the cab managed to catch every single red light between the top end of Mayfair, down through Constitution Hill, along the Birdcage and eventually onto Millbank. Normally, the journey, just over a couple of miles, would have taken maybe fifteen minutes, tops. At night, it usually would take less than twelve. This early-morning jaunt however, due to snow and sheer bad luck, took them closer to twenty.

Throwing a handful of notes at the driver, Sherlock was out of the cab and running full-tilt towards the obolisque. John jogged beside Cate until they reached his side. The screen on his Blackberry demonstrated the efficacy of Mycroft's tracking devices. From the speed of the inwardly-flashing circles, he must be somewhere beneath their feet.

About to fire the small oxy-acetylene cutter, Sherlock laid his hand on the frigid-cold steel. It swung silently open under his touch.

"The gate's unlocked," he whispered to John. "They're still here."

"For the love of _pity_, Cate," John muttered. "Stay behind me and out of trouble or else your husband will get all dramatic and have Sherlock and I banished from the kingdom at the very least."

She barely heard either man's words as something inside her head was very wrong. Instead of a burning desire to rush through the gate and into whatever might be waiting, all Cate felt was a deepening cold, as if her insides were gradually freezing solid. She still felt no anxiety, no fear, in fact a near-complete numbness still held sway over her emotions. Her breathing was slow and difficult; her arms and legs felt like lead. What was the matter with her?

Stepping softly through the opened gate, Sherlock, then John slid like shadows down a dark series of stone steps leading below street-level. Cate followed as fast as her suddenly-sluggish limbs would permit.

At the bottom of a narrow staircase was a short passage leading to another large metal door. A wide bar of light indicated this door too was partially opened.

Sherlock paused, looking down. So did John, who immediately turned back to her.

"Cate, you should go and wait upstairs _now_," he whispered, forcefully.

_Why? What had they seen?_

Pushing the doctor to one side, Cate's breath froze in her lungs as she saw what it was they didn't want her to see: a long stripe of still-damp blood painted along the flagstones as someone – very recently – had been dragged, _bleeding_, down the passage and through the inner door.

Cate felt her internal coldness fade like mist in a hot sun as blazing heat took its place.

The only reason someone would have been dragged through here was if they were unwilling to go, _or were unable to walk_.

This was Mycroft's blood.

As a blistering white-hot fury seared through her bones, Cate took a huge breath and made to step through the door, only to find both John and Sherlock's arms barring her passage. She turned and stared up into Sherlock's eyes, his almost-Mycroft eyes, and smiled slowly.

"If they have hurt him, I'm going to hurt them," she said.

"Not yet, Cate," the younger Holmes shook his head. "We need to know where they have all three hostages first."

Taking another deep breath, she nodded. She would wait that long if she must.

Stepping boldly through the half-open door, Sherlock and John found themselves in a high-ceilinged stone room containing a table and some chairs. There was more blood on the floor in here and signs of a struggle, with an old torch smashed on the floor and an overturned chair behind the door.

The sound of footsteps came from the far end of the room where, too late, a tall, thin man stepped into sight. There was a gun in his hand, but before he could raise it, John had Mycroft's Glock level with the man's eye.

"Blink too fast and you'll never do it again," he said quietly. The man ceased all movement, focusing entirely on the weapon. Realising that he probably wasn't going to get out of this room a free man, Surly grinned nastily. If he could just keep them talking a little bit longer, anything they might do would be far too late.

"You come to rescue the hostages, then?" he asked mockingly, relaxing and leaning against the wall. "You the cavalry, eh?"

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked. "Down there?"

Laughing again, Surly shook his head. "Mine to know, yours to find out," he grinned, nauseatingly.

"Get out of the way," Sherlock made to stride past, inadvertently blocking John's line-of-fire. In an instant, Surly had his pistol jammed in beneath Sherlock's arm.

"Now it's your turn to stand nice and quiet like a good boy," he said. "Nobody goes downstairs," he added, "besides, you're too late."

"Meaning what?" John stared at the gun in his friend's side. If only he could distract the man for a second ...

"Meaning that they're all dead now," Surly laughed again, a high-pitched giggle that set John's teeth on edge. "Specially that last guy; great tall streak of piss he was."

Cate walked past John into Surly's view. "Mycroft Holmes is dead?" she asked, her voice little more than the ghost of a breath.

The doctor groaned internally. Now _both_ of them were in his line-of-fire. He may as well put the gun away.

"Cate, _don't_ ..." Sherlock jerked the kidnapper's weapon stabbed into his ribs.

"_Yeah_," Surly was enjoying this. "_Holmes_, that was his name. Bled like a stuck pig."

Theoretically, both John and Sherlock knew what happened next, although the precise sequence of events would probably never be completely clear.

As the tall man confirmed Mycroft was dead, the shock and fear that had held Cate a prisoner all night finally erupted into ferocity, as she gave in to her internal maelstrom.

A single forward-stride brought her within range of her prey, as she pivoted on the toes of her left foot, lashing out and down with her right one. Catching Surly on the knee, he dropped like a rock, screeching in dreadful agony as his kneecap ruptured and he was maimed for life.

Now that he was closer to the ground, Cate continued the graceful spin which brought her within arms-length. Without a pause, without even a breath of consideration, she punched down hard with her right fist. The stone room echoed with the resulting crack as the tall man's humerus snapped cleanly in two and he screamed again, falling back against the stone wall, sobbing, unable to breathe from the pain.

The attack had taken less than three seconds.

"If I find my husband dead," Cate was quiet again. "I shall come back for you."

Without bothering to look at each other, all three headed for the far end of the room to see another set of narrow steps leading downwards to an increasingly dark space. Running headlong down a chilly stone corridor, they came to a door with a glass portal. It was dogged shut and was clearly designed to be watertight. Staring through the small glass panel, all Sherlock could see was a black expanse of water lapping into a large stone room.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

With a violent jerk, he began to spin the door open, stepping over the metal sill of the door, into the darkness of water beyond. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised what the movement had been.

There were people in this room.

Instantly he threw his coat back through the door, followed quickly by his shoes as he waded, then dove into the water. He had seen a mane of silvery hair floating towards the far end of the chamber. It was Lestrade.

Another face caught his eye in the darkness. In the middle of the room Mycroft was half-floating, half-swimming, awkward in his heavy clothing.

"They have us chained, Sherlock," his brother gasped. "Carbon steel."

Reaching the policeman, the younger Holmes took the man in a life-saving hold, lifting his face above the water.

"Took your bloody time getting here," Lestrade coughed as the water slapped against his mouth.

"_John_," Sherlock shouted back towards the entrance, "Tell Garret we need high-grade bolt-cutters."

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft floundered, choking. "Don't tell Cate it was this way."

"Don't tell Cate it was which way?" she asked, reaching her husband's side and lifting his head out of the water.

"Lie still, my darling," she urged, as Mycroft struggled to turn and see her face. "Everything's going to be fine very soon, don't worry."

"_What the bloody hell are you doing here_?" Mycroft's voice was pitched somewhere between fury and agony as he confronted the woman who had become his entire life.

"Get the hell away from here Cate, _that's an order_," he roared, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

"Sorry, darling man," Cate smiled, coughing as water filled her mouth. "You know I have a problem with orders."

"Cate _please_," Mycroft begged her. "Leave this place now. _Go, my love, please go_."

"I'll go when you go, darling," she coughed again as the salt burned her throat. "And I'll go the same way."

Mycroft despaired.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_The Flying Squad – "I have a knife" – Armed and Ready – Anathema – Goodbye, My Love – A Mad Bitch – A Very Nasty Fall – Not For Cuddling – Escape to Brussels – Gratitude – I Intend To Watch – A Scoundrel – Say Goodbye to England – What Did I Do? – Breakfast in Bed – Not Always in Public._

#

#

It was fortunate the roads were more-or-less empty at this early hour of the morning, as the sight of six of the Met's silver BMWs clad in their usual retroreflective livery _flying_ along Abingdon Street towards Lambeth Bridge, might have attracted an inconvenient crowd.

Following immediately behind the lead car, D.I. Garret was already confirming the arrival of the Counter-terrorism team, advising them of the high risk of biological military hardware being on-scene and ensuring the presence of Type One Hazmat suits. Just in case.

She had also ordered the closing of the bridge and road blocks and detours to be set up at either end, making sure that while nobody now could get in, it was also sure that absolutely _nobody_ was able to get out, either.

As the lead car, an armed response vehicle, braked hard, its occupants piled out swiftly, weapons hugged tight against their bodies until needed.

Garret was on the ground in the next second and commanded the situation from the moment she stepped onto the pavement.

"Do we have the bolt-cutters?" she was already thinking of alternatives in case they didn't.

"Two in the last response-car," a voice whispered. "I'll get them."

"With me," beckoning to the armed officers as she jogged around the parked vehicles, Garret found herself at the steel gate Sherlock had been trying to very hard to breach for the last forty-eight hours. Sending him a mental apology, she was not in the least surprised when one of the armed response team indicated it was already open. "Inside, then," Julie nodded. "Quickly."

On silent, rubber-soled shoes, the police descended into the black depths beneath the Lambeth Bridge obolisque.

###

Greg knew he didn't have long. No matter how hard Sherlock was trying to keep him above the surface of the dark water, the tide was coming in too fast and the chain on his wrist was simply too short. Nearly every wave now washed over his face and he had to fight desperately for breath with each second. Though he knew it was all going to be over in the next few minutes, a part of him refused to admit defeat, gasping for each breath of air, no matter how faint it was or how difficult to find.

"I can get you out of this, Inspector," Sherlock gasped as well, as small waves lapped against his mouth. "You don't have to die here tonight."

"Now you fucking tell me, you prat," Lestrade coughed and wheezed as the water went up his nose. "How?"

"I have a knife," the younger Holmes spat water away. "I can cut your hand off."

Lestrade's heart faltered. The chain was on his right wrist. He was right-handed. He'd no longer be able to do the things he'd spent a lifetime doing. Assuming he lived; he'd be invalided out of the Force, a wreck. He'd be less than he was. _Jesus bloody Christ._

"Do it," he said. "Do it now."

###

Reaching the inner iron door, Garret sent the armed officers through first, following immediately after they advised the area was clear. Stepping into the light she raised her eyebrows at the drying trail of blood painted along the floor at her feet.

There was a man groaning on the floor at the other end of the room near what looked like a second exit. After checking the man for weapons and injuries, the officers, all with weapons levelled to a ready-stance, moved cautiously but unwaveringly onwards.

###

John had dived down to see if he could pull the chain away from the chair to which Mycroft was attached, or in some way break the chair, but it was no good. Everything was heavy-grade steel and needed more than bare hands to affect it.

"The police are coming with bolt-cutters," he said. "I'll go get one – bring it back fast." He gasped, swimming away quickly.

"You realise we are going to have a very long and detailed conversation about this when we get home," Mycroft was still able to tread water, but he felt an increasing tug of the steel manacle on his wrist with every wave now, though he hoped Cate hadn't noticed. He had to get her to leave. The idea of her being next to him, unable to do anything except watch him drown, was anathema. He had already decided upon a course of action.

"My love," Cate kept her hand under his chin as she clung to him in the freezing water, a small barrier against the spray flying up against his face. "You may howl at me, beat me with a stick and divorce me, if that's what you want to do," she choked against a surge. "But you can't make me leave you here."

She was well aware that there was no more give in the chain that held him down. She could feel it in the way Mycroft's body had ceased lifting and dropping with the rising tide: now he simply hung vertically in the water. Every time he fought for breath, so did she; if he died, her heart would die with him.

###

Standing unseen in the darkest of shadows at the far end of the passageway beyond the now-open watertight door, the man Lestrade had named _Happy_ was in turmoil.

He had spent most of his life, as a child, a teenager and since, as an adult, playing hide-and-seek with the authorities. He'd been in jail, or incarceration of some kind for more years than he'd been out of it. He'd done bad things; some of them really bad things, but he'd never hurt anyone smaller than himself, and he'd never been called _coward_. Yet that was what his brain was screaming at him right now. _Coward! Murderer! _

No matter what he had been paid to do, no matter what consequences he might have to endure as a result of this, his conscience apparently was not going to allow him to let these men die.

His right hand was clenched tight. Opening it, he stared down at the key he'd lifted from Surly's pocket; it was the one that opened all the shackles. Taking a deep breath, he knew what he had to do next.

Stepping out of the shadow, he kicked his trainers off and dropped his jacket, almost bumping into a shorter blonde man running up out of the water.

"Who the hell are you?" the blonde asked, sounding and looking like military.

"I'm one of the bad guys," Happy scanned the dark water in the room. "But I got a key," he added, holding it up for John to see. "It'll unlock all their chains."

"Then give it to me ..." John was about ready to grab it, when the man rushed passed him, diving at speed into the water. With powerful strokes, Happy was almost at Mycroft's side, before he was headed off.

"_No_," Mycroft shook his head, waving him towards the policeman. "_Lestrade first_."

Staring at her husband with an agonised expression, Cate said nothing, but tried to lift his chin fractionally higher as the water rose another inch.

Nodding, the man powered himself the several meters away until he was alongside the silver-haired policeman and Sherlock. Lestrade's face was now almost completely submerged with every lap of water. There was the glint of steel in Sherlock's hand.

"Give me a second," Happy gasped, taking a huge breath and duck-diving beneath the surface.

Fumbling his way down Lestrade's body, he located the shackle and fumbled the key into the lock with clumsy, numbed fingers. He felt it click and open, releasing the captive.

With a gasp of success, Lestrade surged up above the surface, dragging in massive lungfuls of air, as his body responded wildly, gloriously able to breathe.

Turning back the way he'd come, Happy made it to Mycroft's side within seconds. Repeating the exercise, he dived down into the pitch-black water, fumbling for the man's wrist and locating the keyhole.

But the icy chill of the rising water acted first on the extremities, and the man's fingers were already deadened with cold. As he aimed the slim steel key by sense of touch alone, it skidded off the wrist-shackle and out of his fingers, plummeting down through the murky water to the dark stone floor beyond. There would be no chance of locating it in time to free Mycroft now.

Surfacing, he looked across at Cate; his eyes went wide with horror. "The key's lost," he gasped.

Her chest seized in icy realisation; she wanted to scream; to scream and rant at the unfairness of _everything_.

"_Cate, you must go now_," Mycroft coughed as water again brushed over his face. "You can't stay here, I can't bear it."

If there was one thing that might have made her change her mind, it was this. That Mycroft's suffering would be made worse by her presence, not lessened.

Unable any longer to maintain a semblance of stoicism, Cate's tears mingled unseen with the salted water of the river. "_I won't leave you_," she cried. "_I can't_."

"_Goodbye, my love_," Mycroft sighed, putting his final plan into action. Taking a last breath, he slipped beneath the surface of the water.

###

Stepping further into the stone room, Julia observed what was clearly the aftermath of a fight involving several people. Apart from the blood on the floor and bloody fingerprints on the walls and table, there were overturned chairs and a few broken items.

At the far end of the room, the groaning man had clearly been involved in the recent skirmish. The way he lay, half-propped up against the cold stone wall spoke volumes. He was also making his plight known very loudly, demanding morphine in one breath and threatening terrible revenge with the next.

"Ambulances on their way, Ma'am," Donovan murmured. "This is one of the men we've identified carrying Mycroft Holmes from the Bedford: got his face as clear as anything in the moonlight."

Nodding, Garret went down on one knee in front of the injured man.

"Been in a bit of a fight, eh?" she said. "Where are the others?"

"Won the fight," Surly paused his groaning to stare up at the D.I. with malice in his eyes. "Then that mad bitch attacked me," he muttered. "Unprovoked attack," he said. "I got witnesses to prove it."

"And which mad bitch would this be?" Garret was puzzled. To her knowledge, the only two people involved in the kidnapping had been this man and another male accomplice. There had been a female associate as well?

"Dunno who she is," he snapped. "But she came in with two guys and was asking about Holmes and when I told her he was dead, she went fucking mental and crippled me," his voice was savage. "I'll have the law on her, I will," he lapsed back to his groaning.

_Mycroft Holmes was dead?_

There was only one woman Garret knew about who might have any real interest in the welfare of Mycroft Holmes ... but ... that would be impossible. Standing but continuing to stare down at the injured man, Julia heard voices shouting at the far exit of the room.

Following the noise, she found herself at the top of another narrow flight of steps – the shouting was coming from down here.

About to investigate, the Inspector paused as an officer carrying bolt-cutters flew past her down the steps, almost immediately followed by a stretcher-bearing paramedic team muttering balefully about Victorian staircase design. There was a lot of noise and the sound of footsteps and bodies shuffling around at the base of the stairs.

Garret looked down into the darkness and waited to see who was going to come up.

Collin Hamran was the first.

###

Cate froze as Mycroft vanished under the water.

_This was not happening; this could not be happening, no no no NO … NO …_

Taking a breath, she ducked down, searching the murky water. All she could think of was to be with him for as long as she was able, although she wasn't sure what her brain meant by that. Cate began to pull herself downwards when she was dragged forcibly aside by John as he and another man with large steel-cutters swam powerfully down towards Mycroft in the blackening depths. She surfaced, gasping, waiting …

In what seemed like ages, but was probably little more than several seconds, the rescuers _whooshed_ to the surface, bearing Mycroft's limp form between them. Dragging him relentlessly towards the door, John had him out of the water and laid out on the stone floor, pumping the Thames from his lungs even before the other man helped her wade up the last few feet of shallower water.

Now that Hamran had been taken care of, and Lestrade already wrapped in a bright orange cover, Cate was the last to be pulled through the watertight door before it was sealed fast against the rising tide already spilling over the sill into the passageway beyond. Someone threw a blanket around her shoulders, but the only thing in her mind was lying on the floor in front of her.

"He's alright, Cate," John had dragged Mycroft's coat and jacket off and was wrapping him in a blanket. "He's breathing and he'll be okay."

Dropping to her knees, she grasped one of Mycroft's icy hands between her own; rubbing the long thin fingers as if that alone would rouse him.

"Got to get him to the ambulance now, Miss."

"I go where he goes," she stood, following behind as they finagled the stretcher up the narrow steps and out into the upper room.

D.I. Garret moved out of the way to let the Paramedics through, but stepped back to the middle of the room to watch as a second team loaded Surly onto a wheeled-stretcher.

"It was _her_," he screamed, cowering as best he could and stabbing a finger at Cate. "That's the mad cow what done me over, and those two," he said, pointing at Sherlock and John, "saw it all."

"I need to be with my husband," Cate met Julia's eyes. "Please don't keep me here."

"I only have one question needing an answer and then you can go," the Inspector looked fatigued. "This man," she tipped her head at Surly. "Claims you attacked him without provocation and that he has witnesses to the event," Julia sighed. "Is there any substance to this allegation, Professor Holmes?"

Cate's thoughts were elsewhere and she nodded jerkily. "He told me Mycroft was dead," she said, about to admit that _yes_, in fact, she was responsible for the injuries, when she felt Sherlock's hand on her shoulder.

"The man _fell_, Inspector," he said. "Slippery stone floor, you know how it is."

Garret kept her face straight. _The floor up here was as dry as chalk_.

John nodded. "A very _nasty_ fall," he added. "Potentially very dangerous."

The D.I. raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. _That was two lies_. She looked to the tall, silver-haired man. _Would there be a nice round number?_

Lestrade rested his hand lightly on Cate's other shoulder. "Possibly several falls," he agreed, before holding out the hand to Garret. "D.I. Lestrade," he offered. "I hear you've been trying to track me down."

_Then it was true_, Julia realised. Cate _had_ attacked the man, but without witnesses willing to testify, nothing would come of the allegation. _The man had just told Cate her husband had been murdered …_ Raising _both_ her eyebrows but otherwise managing to keep an impassive face, Garret nodded at them all, turning back to a frowning, uncertain Cate. The Inspector smiled faintly.

"I think you should go and be with your husband, now, Mrs Holmes," she said quietly. There's nothing to keep you here for, is there?" At the question, Garret stared point-blank at Sherlock, John and Lestrade.

Not a blink between them. Despite herself, she was impressed.

"Where are they taking them?" Lestrade wanted to know. "St Thomas'?"

"You know this area well, Inspector," Julia smiled.

"I was born here," Lestrade shivered as the lack of food, cold, wet clothing and anxiety of the last few days began to catch up with him.

"I'm bloody famished," he said. "Fancy finding an all-night chippy and telling me what's been going on around here since Christmas Eve?"

Julia hesitated. There were still things to follow up, phone calls to make, people to upset and of course, the inevitable paperwork. Apparently, Lestrade was a mind-reader.

"Once I've had something to eat and a few hours kip," he said, "I can help."

"If this is your attempt at charm," Garret was unyielding. "It's awful. Okay, where to?"

"There's a nice clean little place down the back of my flat," he said. "Which means I can get some dry clothes on the way."

###

They had found her something dry to wear at the hospital, although the best they could manage was a set of cotton surgical scrubs. Comfortable and enveloping, not even Mycroft could disapprove.

The noises around her ceased to register a long time ago. Cate could only think about him waking up. It was all she wanted, all she could hope for. Everything else paled beside this necessity; everything else was distant and unreal.

His skin was pallid; smooth and clear in his sleep. They'd taken the oxygen mask off him an hour before, and now all he had was a translucent nasal cannula blowing almost pure oxygen into his lungs.

She was desperately tired. It was nearly eight in the morning and though it had only been about twenty-four hours since she'd last slept, the events of the last day and night had drained her of every drop of resilience and energy. Emotionally, physically and in every meaningful way, she had nothing left, no reserves at all. Her exhaustion made it increasingly difficult to stay awake, and all she wanted to do was crawl into the bed of the man beside her and sleep for a million years.

Blinking hard to keep awake as she held his warming hand, Cate jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Did you actually invite me to beat you with a stick?" he gravelled, his words slow and a little rough.

_Thank God_. Cate's heart thumped with unutterable relief as she brought Mycroft's hand to her face. "Hello, darling," she whispered, brushing his skin with her cheek. "Welcome back."

"_My love_," he murmured, tiredly. "Why are you over there when I am over here?"

She almost smiled. "You're in hospital," she said. "The beds are designed for your physical well-being, rather than for cuddling."

"I shall have to do something about that," he muttered. "My physical well-being includes having you in my arms, so arrange it, please," his eyes flickered closed and his voice trailed to a whisper.

"You'll have to scoot back a little in that case," Cate's lips twitched as he edged to the furthest side of the tight-fitting sheets.

Lifting the nearest covers, she wriggled her way in beside him, sighing as the warmth of his body met her own.

Without thought, she lifted her head as his arm slid around her and she found herself lying easily against him. The regular beat of his heart and the gentle rise-and-fall of his chest were too much. In the time it took her to realise Mycroft was truly alright, she was dead to the world.

Curling around her, Mycroft groaned quietly as Cate's warmth and softness relaxed his aching body to the point of ease, and he too, slept.

Mycroft's personal doctor had abandoned his breakfast, making his way directly to the private rooms of St Thomas' as soon as he had been advised of the situation. Stepping into the room, ready with a civilised greeting and assurances of an immediate transfer to a more discreet medical facility, he stopped short, a smile curling his mouth at the unprecedented sight of Mycroft Holmes, bastion and unsung defender of the British People, fast asleep, wrapped around his wife.

###

Garret answered her mobile phone and nodded in relief.

As soon as the tide had dropped sufficiently, the lethal canisters had been taken quietly and carefully away. With the greatest speed and a minimum of fuss and under the cover story of a sewer gas-leak, the road-blocks and police presence were easily explained, as the super-deadly containers had been removed from their subterranean bolthole. A brilliant yellow plastic tent shrouded the gateway in the Lambeth Bridge obolisque as each cylinder of death was lifted, tenderly, like a baby, into a specially-fitted van, then whisked away to be _properly_ dealt with this time. The road-blocks had just now been removed, hence the call.

Returning to the screen, she read from a print-out. "Sir Samuel Kinlan," she said, looking up at the magnified facial-image on the wall. "Europarl lobbyist, establishment mouthpiece for the far right, suspected links with half-a-dozen Nationalist and neo-fascist groups, several of which are on Interpol's Black list," she paused, an aggrieved expression on her face. "And a right bastard, by all accounts."

"This was taken when, exactly?" Sherlock steepled his fingers as he slouched in the chair in Lestrade's office.

"CCTV observed him exiting the Lambeth Bridge vault approximately thirty minutes before we arrived," she said. "He got into a waiting Mercedes, the ownership of which has been traced to a shell company and which is being investigated further as we speak, and was last seen heading up Millbank towards Whitehall." Garret frowned. She could have used Lestrade's local knowledge about now.

Despite protests to the contrary, the Inspector had been told he needed several days recuperation and was _to go home_. After a significant amount of arguing and pleading, Julia had eventually agreed to meet him later for a pizza in order to keep him in the loop. Lestrade maintained he was fit and able to continue at his desk.

"_Do not_," she had said, "attempt to bullshit a bullshitter."

Lestrade had the grace to look mildly sheepish. "I hate not knowing what's going on. Drives me nuts."

"I know the feeling," Garret smiled. "See you at seven."

The desk-phone rang. Listening, Garret screwed up her face in annoyance.

"_Rats_," she said. "Kinlan's just been waved through at Gatwick on a diplomatic passport to Brussels," the Inspector sighed fatalistically. "I don't think we'll be seeing him for a while."

"You know," Sherlock brooded. "I'm not so sure." He reached for his Blackberry.

###

The new kitchen floor at 221B was remarkably similar to the old floor, save that this one was of industrial-grade, non-toxic vinyl tile. _At least there were no acid stains_, Mycroft raised his eyebrows. _Or bullet holes … for the moment_.

"You didn't ask me here to show me your lovely new kitchen floor, did you?" he asked as Sherlock handed him a cup and saucer. "It's very pretty."

"Thank you," Sherlock was perfectly earnest. "The proud father is over there," he said, nodding at his flatmate.

John sighed. "Just because you can't be arsed to keep this flat in a sanitary condition," he muttered. "Doesn't mean I have to put up with it." The blonde man turned to their visitor. "How's Cate?"

"She's a little … preoccupied," Mycroft frowned slightly. "And I am reminded to thank you for your … _assistance_ in that black hell-hole," he said, a tightness forming in his belly and around his eyes. "Had you not … had you and Sherlock been … _if_ _Cate_ …" he inhaled gustily. "Thank you."

"Not at all," John smiled as he took a biscuit from a nearby plate. "No need to get gushy."

"If there's any practical way in which I might express my thanks ..?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Do you imagine for one second that either Sherlock or I would accept _anything_?" John was mildly scandalised.

"Let's not be premature about this, John," Sherlock also reached for a biscuit. "There may be an occasion for my brother to be even more grateful, especially if we save his life a second time."

_A second time? What was this?_

"Do tell, Sherlock," Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he continued to sip his Earl Grey.

Sherlock told.

Their tea was quite cold by the time he finished. Mycroft sighed. He had hoped the police would have been able to close this matter, but apparently not. There was still work to do.

He stood. "I must decide which one, of all the options available, is least hazardous," he said.

Sherlock noted his brother was careful not to say '_least hazardous for Cate'_ but though unspoken, her name was there.

Making his way to the door of the flat, Mycroft turned suddenly to John.

"You know, Doctor," he murmured. "Regardless of whether you will accept my gratitude or not," he paused. "You have it, and it may take whatever future shape you desire."

It was in the Jaguar on the way back to the townhouse that Mycroft decided on the most effective strategy to handle this new tangle. It would be risky, but then, all the alternatives were risky.

As they were already planning to return to Deepdene, then that was the option he would take. Mycroft believed it to be the most likely to succeed, although Cate's involvement might be a wild card. He needed one more conversation, to be quite sure. Lifting his phone, he called Russia.

###

It was still possible, if one knew the right people and had sufficient funds, to travel privately from the Continent to Britain without recourse to British Customs or immigration niceties. Samuel Kinlan had both, and touched down in a small, private jet at Wisley Airfield near Dorking, just after midnight. He was met by a dark Mercedes and two tall, light-haired young men, one slightly darker than the other. Both men appeared older than their years; their expression too emotionless for such youthful eyes. Though neither of them was over thirty, both were competent and experienced killers. They came highly recommended.

"You know your target?" Kinlan wanted to be certain.

"We have him," the darker-haired one nodded.

"How will you do it?"

"Better, perhaps, you do not know," the other responded. The slightest trace of a north-European accent.

"_Quite_," Kinlan smiled ruefully. "One forgets there are still professionals in the world."

"You should not be here," the first one observed. "You should be seen by many people as far away as possible."

"Everyone thinks me in Brussels," Kinlan smiled mockingly. "To all intents and purposes, I have not re-entered this country."

"Still," the other added. "It is unnecessarily dangerous."

"Possibly," Kinlan scowled, "But you forget one thing."

"The darker of the two men lifted an eyebrow. "And what is that?"

"I intend to watch."

###

Outside, the sky beyond this room was dark and cold, the full-moon almost at its highest arc of the month, but inside …

Throwing another log onto an already well-heaped fire, Cate stretched back along the sofa, her head resting on a cushion at Mycroft's side, her eyes focused on her laptop's scrolling screen. There was a gin-and-tonic on the floor within easy reach of her hand. She felt almost relaxed.

Mycroft had expressed an interest in the documents collated from the Holmes lineage research and Cate thought it amusing to recount some of the histories. One or two of them had been eyebrow-raising.

Example one: the Honourable Gervaise Vernet Holmes, sometime Mayor of Oakhampton, had turned out to be the leader of a gang of Wreckers, bringing ships to grief on the Devonshire rocks in order to plunder their bounty. He died, gruesomely, on the gibbet at Mary Tavy. Example two: Lady Caroline de Pruys, neé Caroline Perll Holmes, who, when courted by a Dutch merchant, wedded him, bedded him, buried him, then married her eldest step-son. There was even a portrait. The Lady Caroline looked terrifying: all wig and bosom.

"And _then_ there was a Methodist Bishop, Hiram Zachariah Holmes, in Philadelphia, 1866," Cate read. "_Oh_."

Pausing from a particularly mendacious cryptic clue in the Guardian's crossword involving two reversals _and_ a double-definition, Mycroft looked up. "_Oh?_"

"Apparently His Grace, Hiram Zachariah, was laicised by ecclesiastical due process following an unfortunate romp with the wife of one of his Deacons," he could hear amusement in her voice.

"Unfortunate?"

"His defrocking was posthumous," she said. "The Deacon had been a sharpshooter during the Civil War."

"Typical Colonial," Mycroft sighed.

"Typical _Holmes_, you mean," Cate sighed too. "Judging by the litany of fleshly sins uncovered during the research for your family tree, I'd say quite half of your ancestors were political scoundrels, obsessed with the getting of power, while the other half were profligate philanderers, determined to bed their way to a fortune."

Mycroft shook his head, smiling down at her "I could never be a philanderer,"

Sitting up, Cate turned her head to meet his eyes. "Then are you a scoundrel?" she asked, a curious look on her face.

Frowning, he rationalised the possibilities. "I quite like the idea of being a scoundrel," he mused. "It allows for all manner of appalling self-interest, while leaving the possibility of redemptive behaviour entirely open to circumstance."

"Did I marry a scoundrel?" Cate twisted around on the sofa beside him, a hand on his knee, a lost look on her face. She seemed distracted.

It made his heart ache.

"Cate," he said. "There is obviously something we need to discuss …"

The sound of breaking glass interrupted his sentence.

Her eyes grew wide. She was about to leap off the sofa to investigate, when his hand wrapped around her wrist, holding her still.

"Don't move, my love," Mycroft's voice was quiet and calm. "Be my brave Cate just a little longer."

There was the strangest sensation in her chest, as if she were falling.

_Something was wrong and he knew what it was and he hadn't told her …_

"Have you been a scoundrel all along, Mycroft?" her words were barely audible as she stilled under his grasp.

It was no surprise at all when two sets of footsteps sounded down the hall and walked into the drawing room.

"Mr Holmes?" a soft European voice inquired. "I think you are indeed Mycroft Holmes."

Cate turned her head. A young man, scarcely older than some of her students, stood at the doorway, a thin, elegant gun in his hand.

"I am Mycroft Holmes."

"And this is your lovely wife," a tall, dark-haired man attired in the best of Savile Row swept into the drawing-room, peeling off his gloves as he did so. "I've been waiting such a long time for an introduction."

Mycroft stood; composed, entirely calm.

"My wife, Cate," he said, squeezing her fingers.

_He wanted her to play along … why?_

"Samuel Kinlan," the well-dressed intruder gathered her hand into his. "Delighted to make your acquaintance."

His touch offended her. Cate found herself wondering quite dispassionately what the consequences might be if she broke this man's neck.

Extracting her fingers from his hand, she stepped closer to Mycroft.

"And _what_ are you?" Cate asked him over her shoulder. "Thief, traitor or murderer?"

Kinlan drew himself up, a coldness on his face.

"Just like your husband," he spat. "_Ill-considered_. I had thought to spare you, but I see now I was being naïve."

"My wife has no part in our business," Mycroft drew Cate beside him. "Allow her to leave unharmed and you may do as you wish with me."

"Now _you're_ being naïve," Kinlan snapped, turning away from them. "Do what you've been paid to do," he snarled at the nearer of his hired killers.

"As you wish," the man lifted his pistol to Mycroft's head.

"Not _tonight_, bucko," John stepped into the room, his Browning levelled and steady. Sherlock followed behind, prodding the second assassin in front of him with Mycroft's Glock.

"The police are on their way," John nodded almost cheerily. "Are you both okay?"

"Perfectly fine, Doctor Watson," Mycroft pulled his phone out of his jacket and pressed a key. His call was connected instantly.

"You may collect the package now," he said.

"_Package_?" Cate's head was spinning.

"Just a little longer, darling," Mycroft murmured, wrapping a steadying arm around her shoulders. "And then we'll finally be done with this mess."

The back door in kitchen door opened and closed. Again, there was the sound of approaching footsteps.

Peter Menshikov strolled into the drawing-room as if he'd been here a hundred times. "Mycroft, _tovarish_," he said, clapping Mycroft on the arm. "And the heavenly_ Ekaterina_," he kissed her cheek gently before holding her away to scan her face and frowning at her pallor. "Leave this man who risks your life and come away with me," he suggested, not entirely in joke. "I will never put you in danger," he scowled over her head at Mycroft, a pointed expression on his aristocratic features.

The elder Holmes lifted an eyebrow.

Cate shook her head, her thoughts all over the place. Menshikov sighed and shrugged, before turning to gaze at the enraged Kinlan.

"Sir Samuel," the Russian looked cheerful. "You and I are going to take a little trip in your nice private jet."

"You can't do that," Kinlan blustered. "I won't go."

"You are not really _here_, Sir Samuel," Menshikov's smile turned suddenly chilly. "I can do whatever I want." Bowing to Cate, the Russian nodded to Mycroft. "I will take my leave now," Menshikov's smile as ferocious as the gun suddenly in his hand. "Say goodbye to England," he said, poking the muzzle into Kinlan's shoulder.

###

After the police had left, taking Sherlock and John back to London with the two hired killers, Cate held, as Mycroft tacked, several layers of thick plastic and card over the broken windowpane. No draft would find its way through before a glazier repaired the damage.

Watching his wife, Mycroft felt an unusual concern. Something was very wrong; had been wrong since they left St Thomas' and if Cate wasn't going to raise it, then he would.

Returning to the drawing-room, he poured an armagnac and sat her in an overstuffed Chesterfield before perching on the low table in front of her. His expression was searching as he watched her taste the spirit, waiting until she met his eyes.

"Tell me, Cate," he said, softly. "Tell me now."

She swallowed. "Tell you what?"

"Evasion?"

She stared into her glass. "I don't know what you mean," she said, listlessly.

"And now a lie?"

Lifting her head, Cate was caught in the deep blue of his gaze. She inhaled slowly.

"There is nothing I … wish to say."

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked sceptical. "And yet there are clearly things that need to be said."

She sighed heavily. "Mycroft, please, just leave this."

_Then he had been right_. He placed his palms on the arms of her chair.

"Not until you have told what is making you so dreadfully unhappy, my love," he moved to capture her hands, but she shrugged him off.

"There is … nothing …" she sounded uneasy, on edge.

"Darling, _tell me_," he demanded. "Is it me? Is it something I've done?' Mycroft racked his brain for an explanation to the misery she'd been trying so hard to hide since returning from the hospital; _any_ clue would help.

Cate's face was frozen, her jaw clenched violently against any involuntary sign that might give her away. She daren't speak; once started she might not be able to stop. Her throat spasmed in anguish.

That he was making her even more wretched was unbearable, but he had to find the key to her distress.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked quietly. "Have I done something that makes you unhappy?"

Cate bit her lip as the pressure built inside.

"Please, _no more_," she strangled the words out. Mycroft hated himself for it, but he had to know.

"What did I do to make you so afraid, my darling Catie?" his words were as soft as an evening breeze.

It was too much. Choking back a sob, she tried to stand to get away, to be away from him, but he stood too, pulling her against him, holding her so very tight.

"Catie, my love," his voice was raw. "_What did I do_?"

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hold it in any longer.

"You were going to _die_," she wailed into his chest. "Those men took you and _you were going to die_, _in that place_, _in the water_, _in the dark_," she clung to him with fingers that left bruises. "You were going to leave me," her tears came in great gasps, fast and hot and from deep inside. "I was never going to hear your voice again, or see you smile at me and I was never going to be happy again ever because you would be dead … _if you died, I wanted to die too_."

Cate was rigid with pain; seemingly not flesh and blood at all, but a thing of stone and grief in his arms. Huge shudders ripped through her. She'd kept the horror and fear at bay since the van had dragged him away from their house, away from _her_, but nothing could make the terrible events fade from her memory.

As if an immense internal spring was uncoiling, she wept in great ragged heaves as all the hours of suffering purged themselves slowly from her body.

Mycroft hung on grimly in helpless dismay, his heart pounding as he waited for Cate's emotional torrent to run its course and subside. Acknowledging himself as an imbecile, he realised he should have thought of this; _he should have known_. Sherlock was not the only Holmes to have difficulty anticipating emotion.

"Darling, _darling_ Catie," he whispered. "_It's all over now_. I'm not going to leave you, my love," he wrapped her even closer. "I'd never leave you, my heart, don't be frightened for me anymore."

As the race of her tears slowed and her breathing moderated, Cate was gradually being overcome with fatigue. "I must lie down," she whispered, wobbling to the nearest sofa.

Dragging a heavy woollen throw from a pile on a window seat, Mycroft put a cushion under her head and wrapped her in the thick material, wondering if a doctor should be called.

"_Cold_," she mumbled, shivering.

In seconds he was stretched out on the sofa beside her and had wrapped Cate up in him as well.

About to ask her how she felt, Mycroft realised she was already asleep.

###

When Cate awoke, she was in their bed, still fully-dressed and still ensconced in the wool blanket, buried under several additional quilts and eiderdowns. Mycroft was nowhere around. At some point during the night, he must have carried her, wrap and all, upstairs.

She was still weary but she was warm, and there was a lightness inside her. She stretched experimentally and though stiff, felt reasonably normal, just tired. Her face was grimy. Cate wondered exactly how horrible she looked.

Debating whether to drag herself to the bathroom, there was the sound of footsteps on the staircase. In another moment, Mycroft walked into the bedroom in his robe, carrying a large and well-laden tray.

"Breakfast in bed I thought, as it's New Year's Eve," he smiled carefully, watching her eyes.

Cate breathed deeply, waiting for the inevitable wave of anxiety that had greeted her each morning for the last few days, only to find it gone. She smiled tentatively.

"How are you feeling, love of my life, darling of my heart?" Mycroft placed the tray at the bottom of the bed and sat beside her, his fingers linking into hers. He looked uncertain. "Could you manage to eat something? I brought a little breakfast."

Cate assessed the state of her stomach: she hadn't been hungry since the Embassy party and realised she was ravenous.

"I'm starving," she said, coughing at the rawness of her throat. "Tea, please," she coughed again, sipping the hot liquid which soothed as much as it burned.

The efficacy of tea never failed, and Cate felt herself revive as the warmth travelled through her.

"I have to wash my face. Back in a second," she said, easing out of bed and into the bathroom. Her eyelids looked a little pink and tender, but other than that, she seemed remarkably normal. Feeling much fresher when she crawled back under the covers, she saw what Mycroft called a 'little' breakfast included eggs, bacon, toast, strawberries, honey, a large pot of tea, and just-squeezed orange.

"I'll never be able to make a dent in this," she looked back at him, only to find her breath catching at his expression. _Doting_. His look was _doting_.

"You have no idea how adorable you are when you're hungry," Mycroft poured her a glass of orange. "Drink this," he said. "You need to regain your energy." He knew they needed to talk about last night, but they also needed distance, some perspective, before that discussion.

Cate smiled. "I need energy?"

Meeting her eyes, he lifted his eyebrows, a speculative look on his face. "Oh _yes_," his eyes were very blue as he fed her a strawberry. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"

"Much," Cate slid beneath the quilts. "As a doctor, I think peace and quiet is ordered."

"So, _Doctor_," Mycroft smiled, sliding next to her on the bed. "What is your medical opinion of our situation and what regimen do you suggest we follow?" there was amusement in his voice.

Cate adopted a thoughtful expression. "I think fresh air and good food and lots of rest," she said, knowledgably. "I should also be with a competent professional at all times in case I suffer a relapse."

"A relapsed upset?" Mycroft tried hard to look solemn.

"Indeed," she was very serious. "One cannot be too careful in the avoidance of such things, thus I will need a qualified and experienced assistant to administer help at the appropriate times."

"Such as?"

Shrugging, Cate looked earnest. "In the shower, for instance," she nodded sagely. "Many incidences of relapse in the shower or bath, I shouldn't be alone at those times for a while."

"You make a strong case, Doctor," his voice dropped half-an-octave as his fingers caressed the hair back from her face. "What else do you recommend?"

"Bed-rest," she sighed, half-closing her eyes as Mycroft's arms wrapped around her. "Lots of bed-rest."

"And do you need qualified and experienced assistance with that too?" he dropped the other half of the octave, his lips at her ear while his fingers stroked her neck and throat.

"_Oh God, yes_," she groaned, pulling him down to her.

#

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# Almost the end #

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It was already growing dark.

"I think we should get up and dress, you know," Cate stretched, catlike, under the covers as Mycroft lay back, hands beneath his head.

"Why?" he felt outrageously lazy.

"Because it's our first New Year's Eve and we should celebrate it in style," she blinked slowly, almost willing to be convinced to stay in bed.

"We can celebrate in style right here," he murmured. Reaching over, he rested his chin on the top of her head, his fingers stroking soft circles on her shoulder.

"I want champagne and music and candles," she was in the mood to be demanding. "And I want to kiss you precisely at midnight as the New Year arrives."

Mycroft sighed. After a day of demonstrating to Cate, quite thoroughly and leaving no room for any doubt that she need fear for his continued vitality, he felt gratifyingly indolent. Smiling in the growing darkness of the bedroom, he recognised that breakfast in bed had been a stroke of brilliance. He would remember it for the future.

This further reminded him of … _yes_. Perfect.

"Very well," he smiled even more. "Would you like me to scrub your back again?"

###

Drying her hair after their extended shower, Cate was about to slide into jeans and a sweatshirt when she saw a familiar casing laid out upon the bed. Unzipping it revealed the dark red dress she had worn to the Embassy party. Mycroft walked back into the bedroom already tying a bow around the collar of a crisp white shirt.

She smiled in delight.

"You're a genius," she grinned up at him.

"_I am_," he nodded, smiling, his eyes widening as she wriggled into the gown exactly as she was. Seeing Cate nude was a sensual pleasure, but _knowing_ she was naked under a few strips of fabric was both arousing _and_ seductive. Mycroft took a deep breath: he needed to pace himself with greater care lest his enthusiasm for his wife bring about the very thing that she feared.

Lowering the lights in the dining-room, he opened a bottle of Krug and poured two flutes. Stepping into the next room, he selected the exact music that had been in his head for days, and set the CD to play.

The tapping of Cate's shoes into the room coincided with the rise of the music. Turning, Mycroft saw that she had applied cosmetics and perfume: her jewels shone in the subtle lighting. She looked edible. Despite the activities of the day, he felt himself unequivocally roused. He handed her a glass.

"You tango?" he asked, looking down at the gleaming darkness of her eyes. "You must."

"I tango," she laughed, "although I didn't know you did."

"There are a number of things I will never do in public, my love," he said, smoothing his fingers over her arm and neck, sliding down the bareness of her spine, curving over her hip.

She smiled.

#

THE END

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**NEW STORY ... The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes**

A romance. Secrets, suspicion and seduction. An old love-affair, an old war and a new life.

A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story.

You are incredibly generous and your comments are quite thrilling.

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